by Rob Ashman
‘This isn’t right.’ She muttered under her breath.
‘What isn’t?’ Tavener was stood beside her breaking her train of thought.
‘Shit! For a big guy you don’t make a lot of noise do you?’ Kray said jolting herself back to reality.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to …’
‘Never mind.’ Kray looked her colleague up and down. ‘You do know it’s January, right?’ A reference to him wearing a white cotton shirt that looked as if he’d borrowed it from a much smaller friend.
‘Yeah, I know, I left my jacket in the car.’
‘Jacket? You need an arctic explorer coat in this weather never mind a bloody jacket.’
‘Thanks for the advice, ma’am, I’ll make sure it’s on my shopping list for the weekend,’ he replied, knowing full well Kray hated being called ma’am.
Kray gave him a withering look, like she was scolding a wayward teenager. ‘Did you get a statement?’
‘Got it. I couldn’t shut him up and every time he repeated his story it was slightly different. Keeping track of it was a nightmare. Not sure the beer helped matters.’
‘Go back and have another go if you’re not happy.’
Tavener paused, it was his turn to look his boss up and down. ‘It appears you’re the one who’s not happy. What is it, Roz? I’ve seen that look enough times to know all is not well.’
‘Maybe.’ Kray continued to examine the scene.
‘Well, what is it?’
‘What do you think happened?’
‘The driver came around the corner and saw Cadwell in the road. He or she slammed on the anchors but failed to stop and ran him over. They came to a halt further on.’ Tavener pointed to the two sets of skid marks. ‘When he or she realised what had happened they drove off. That fits with the witness statement.’
‘Yeah it does. But it doesn’t fit with this.’ She waved her hand around the blood spatters in the road. Tavener rotated on the spot taking in the extent of the markers.
‘The car must have been going a fair speed,’ he offered.
Kray removed her phone from her inside pocket. ‘Hi, this is Acting DCI Kray can you get a Forensic Collision Investigator over to Clinton Avenue. Tell them to ask for me when they arrive.’ She hung up.
‘Collision investigation? Why do we need that?’
‘This wasn’t a hit and run, this was attempted murder.’
Chapter 3
It was the day I came back from the dead.
The first rays of the sun skirted over the mountains, sharpening the lengthy shadows on the ground. It was going to be another blistering spring day. My boots hit the shale as I jumped from the Snatch Land Rover, sending a cloud of dust into the air. My wrap-around ballistic glasses protected my eyes but my mouth soon clogged with the perpetual taste of sand being carried on the wind. I rubbed a cherry chapstick around my cracked lips. The dry climate and high altitude played havoc with my skin.
Up ahead I could see the burley figure of Donk perched on top of the Jackal, panning the barrel of his heavy machine gun across the outcrop of buildings in front of us. He had been given that name after one of the guys noticed his uncanny resemblance to the character in the Crocodile Dundee film. Donk was a giant of a man, the kind who couldn’t spell tank but could pick one up. The rest of the team piled out of the vehicles to greet the day.
This was my second tour. Like many before me, I would describe it as ninety-eight per cent boredom interrupted by two per cent of sheer terror. To my shame I had to admit that I craved the two per cent. And being stationed in Helmand Province, a land mass half the size of England, and expecting it to be effectively patrolled by a little over one thousand troops, ensured we were never too far away from our share. Looking back now, it was the only time I felt normal.
Patrolling the Northern Valley was a no-win situation. ‘Protect and reconstruct’ was the mission statement but that was tough to do when nobody wanted us there. Not the Taliban, not the drug barons and not the tribesmen. It reminded me of the time I visited my girlfriend’s family over Christmas the previous year – only with less agro.
We had received an intelligence report that a lethal arms cache had been hidden by insurgents in a village thirty miles to the west of Sangin - though experience had taught us to take the word intelligence with a huge pinch of salt.
All the fighting was focused around the district centres of Sangin, Now Zad and Musa Qala and the drone footage of the area had shown it to be deserted. We weren’t expecting any unwanted company.
To call it a village was a little overstating it. A ramshackle collection of four dwellings, set in a square with a dust bowl of a courtyard in the middle, could hardly be considered a village. We scanned the surrounding hillsides. Nothing moved.
We scurried to the nearest house leaving Donk on his perch, raking the terrain through a set of field glasses. I pressed my back hard against the wall as Jono ran inside, followed by Pat, Ryan and Bootleg. I filed in behind.
The building was derelict, with half a roof and debris strewn across the floor. The sun had baked the brittle orange walls to dust. The occupants had long since gone, taking everything with them except for a paprika-red headscarf which was draped over a makeshift washing line. I reached over and snatched it free, folded it into a neat square and stuffed it inside my combat jacket. To this day I have no idea why I did that.
The others were chatting in a close huddle. We looked out at the three other buildings about thirty yards away, each one in a similar state of disrepair. All was still. To the right of the house was the wall. A curious twenty-feet long by four-feet high stone and mud structure in the middle of nowhere. What the hell purpose it served was beyond me. It wasn’t connected to anything, it just stood there. It was like some guy had built it, got bored, thought ‘that will do’ and left. That was our target.
I took out my map and spread it onto the dirt.
‘Yup, that’s the place. The cache is hidden beneath the base of that wall, on the south side.’ I nodded to the others.
‘Time to deliver justice, boys.’ That was the phrase Jono uttered on every operation. None of us knew exactly what it meant, but it suited the occasion every time. It had become our team mantra.
We crouched down, keeping tight to the outside and entered the nearest home to the left. It, too, was stripped bare. Then we made our way onto the next, then the next. They were deserted.
Jono marched out to the middle and signalled to Donk, who raised his hand. I unpacked my detector and snapped the handle in place.
Ryan followed me over to where X marked the spot.
‘What the hell was this used for?’ he said pointing at the wall.
‘Buggered if I know. Maybe it was the start of a fifth house and they thought better of it.’
‘I got neighbours like that. I wish they hadn’t bothered.’
I flicked the switch on the detector and slowly tracked along the base of the stonework. The machine started to do its stuff and the needle bounced around as it picked up fragments of metal on the ground.
Jono and Bootleg showed up.
‘Anything?’ Jono asked.
I shook my head, continuing to fan the detector head in arcs across the sand. Five strides further on, the needle went off the scale and the shrill beep told me there was something heavy hidden below. I took out my knife and began delving the tip into the gravel. It was not unusual for arms dumps to be booby-trapped, so it paid to be cautious.
After several minutes I had dislodged the top layer of shale. It was safe.
I unfolded my shovel and began to dig at the sandy soil. After ten minutes I struck something solid. Bootleg lent a hand and we quickly uncovered a thick plastic sack. I ran my hands across the surface and could feel the curved outlines of AK-47 magazines. We heaved it from the ground.
‘That’s gonna hurt Terry Taliban,’ Jono said as he grabbed hold of one end and Bootleg took the other. ‘Let’s get it to the Snatch.’ They waddled off wi
th the bag hanging between them.
I picked up the detector and continued to search, inching my way along the wall. Three feet further along the needle did its electronic happy dance again. I went through the same routine as before with the tip of my knife, this time grinning like a Cheshire Cat. It was all clear.
My shovel broke the ground and I piled mounds of sand and rocks to the side. I could feel the warmth on my back disappear as the rest of the team appeared behind me, putting me in the shade.
‘Makes a change for the scribblies to get it right,’ said Pat.
‘Looks like they hit the jackpot this time,’ replied Jono.
‘We got this,’ said Pat nudging me out of the way. He and Jake dropped down and started to claw at the ground with their shovels.
I resumed my snail’s pace walk along the wall. The needle went berserk again.
‘Got another one,’ I said and allowed Jono to do the honours with his knife. A little further along and it happened again. ‘And another. This is a good day, my friends.’
Pat and Jake tugged at the handles of a green metal box, freeing it from its shallow grave.
‘Fucking RPGs,’ Pat said wiping away the layers of dirt from the top with his gloved hand and flipping open the catches.
‘Nice one,’ Jono said.
I took out my knife and knelt down at the latest site. To the side of my face, a black scorpion emerged from a gap in the stonework to soak itself in the first heat of the day. I watched it find a suitable spot, stretching out its tail and front pincers. I put the point of my knife in the centre of its body, there was a crack like the splintering of eggshell.
I lifted the scorpion from the wall and gazed at it, it’s legs pumped the air as it fought against being impaled upside down on the blade. The sting in its tail stabbed repeatedly at the metal. The creature contorted its body trying to free itself.
A puff of dust erupted from the wall to the left of my head. I caught it in my peripheral vision, snapping my eyes away from the scorpion. A second fragment of wall disintegrated into the air. Then we heard the pop-pop-pop of rapid fire.
Jono leapt to his feet yelling ‘Incoming!’ just as a shell tore into the calf muscle of his left leg. I launched myself to the side to avoid the exploding debris from the wall. I hit the ground hard and took a mouthful of dirt for my troubles.
Pat and Jake swung around to engage the enemy but there was no one there.
Where the hell is it coming from?
Jono went down clutching his leg. ‘Shit!’ he cried out.
Another line of bullets exploded against the mud surface of the wall, everyone hit the ground. The bang-bang-bang of Donk returning fire with his 50-calibre echoed off the buildings.
I looked up. Where the hell are they?
I shuffled to a crouch position and grabbed hold of Jono by his arm. ‘Get over the wall!’
Pat and I bundled him over the top and he landed in a heap the other side screaming in pain. Jake dropped to the floor as a black hole appeared in his upper chest. A starburst of red exploded across the stonework behind him.
Donk was spraying bullets about the hillside as if he was doling out sweets on Halloween, sending plumes of dust and rock into the air. Then all of a sudden everything stopped. Silence. Pat scrambled over the wall followed by Bootleg.
Then another round thudded into Jake but he didn’t flinch. I felt a sharp pain in my right shoulder and a bullet tore through my fatigues, grazing my flesh. I grabbed my weapon and hurled myself into the air but my feet slipped from under me on the loose gravel. I arched my back like a high jumper and came crashing down on top of the wall, knocking the wind out of me. In my dazed state I writhed around trying to right myself and tip my body over the top. I heard a fat metallic clunk against my helmet and the force catapulted me over to the other side. I landed flat on my back staring up at the blue sky with a loud ringing in my head. Then the craggy features of Bootleg filled my field of vision. He had one hand on my chest and the other on my neck.
‘He’s gone,’ he yelled. ‘Jarrod’s gone.’
I stared up at him through my unblinking eyes and thought, is this what it’s like to be dead? I imagined something different.
He disappeared and I was once again drowning in a sea of deep blue. I could hear the retorts of assault rifles as Pat and Bootleg blasted away, and was aware of being showered in debris from the top of the wall. Jono was barking orders.
I lay there unable to move, imprisoned inside my inert body. As the mayhem swirled around me I could feel sand in my eyes but could not close them. The tiny particles felt like boulders. Jono was shouting something about a tourniquet while Bootleg was yelling about the radio. My arms and legs refused to move. I couldn’t call out, the sound of a thousand air raid sirens screamed in my ears.
Boots pounded around me as the guys changed position trying to lay eyes on where the enemy was hiding.
Then with a massive intake of breath I sat bolt upright, frightening Bootleg to death. He leaned over and pulled me against the wall.
‘I thought you were fucking dead,’ he said.
I rubbed the grit from my eyes and tried to speak. Nothing came out. I stared down at my hands turning them over and over as if I was seeing them for the first time.
I’m not dead … The words churned over and over in my head.
The far end of the wall exploded. The blast blew us sideways and sent the whole world spinning in a shower of rock.
Chapter 4
‘Today’s the day,’ Kray sang the words over and over as she drove to Victoria Hospital. This was despite having given herself a stiff talking to while waiting at a set of traffic lights and telling herself to calm down and get a grip. Even so, the knot of expectation in her stomach would not go away.
She checked the clock on the dashboard, 9am exactly. At this precise time, three days ago, she had been sitting in front of an interview panel being put through her paces for the role of Detective Chief Inspector. ACC Mary Quade was chairing the panel which was a mixed blessing because Quade flipped between being Kray’s number one fan one day - thinking she was the best thing to happen to Lancashire force since Curry Fridays - to hating her guts the next, and wanting to destroy her career. The problem was, it was never clear to Kray which ACC Quade would show up for work.
All the candidates had been through the selection board on the same day. It was a prestigious position and the candidate list was long. DI Dan Bagley was one of them. The Mancunian tosser from Greater Manchester Police who Quade had drafted in to ‘support’ the Palmer case. Though in Kray’s mind she substituted the word ‘support’ for the more appropriate phrase of ‘almost fucked up’.
Kray had performed well during the hour-long grilling and had flown through the In-Tray exercise and the presentation. At one point she had to steel herself away from the mess of pens and pencils laying on the desk. Her OCD went into orbit … everyone knows pens go on one side and pencils on the other. She resisted the temptation to arrange them in their rightful place, blanked out her anxiety and ploughed on. After all, she was the star of the show, having cracked two serial killer cases in a year, she was the woman in form. Though she had to admit it was a challenge to speak for twenty minutes on the topic ‘Delivering effective policing in an environment of austerity.’ Despite her reservations they had appeared impressed with what she had to say. She was quietly confident the appointment would go her way but the nerves would not let her anxieties rest.
Kray parked up and entered the sprawling building. She didn’t bother with the lift, choosing instead to bound up the stairs to the landing with the sign hanging above the corridor that read: Mortuary, Bereavement Office and Pathology.
On reading the sign another image burst into her head. A dishy, blond haired, Home Office pathologist with a liking for wearing waistcoats and trousers that fitted where they touched. The prospect of seeing Dr Christopher Millican was definitely an added bonus when having to view a dead body at this time of the mo
rning.
Kray reached the mortuary and pulled on her protective gear, growling under her breath at the white coverall that swamped her small frame.
She rolled her eyes to the ceiling as she grabbed hold of a yard of material and pulled it away from her body. I’m meeting Doctor Ding-dong and I look like a child wearing her father’s overalls.
She berated herself. What the hell difference does it make what I look like? It’s not as if I’m interested in him.
It was a lie Kray had told herself every day since she had joined him for a coffee, closely followed by an after-work glass of wine at his favourite bar. It had happened the day after she solved the Palmer case and she put it down to an ‘emotional blip’. She had taken the initiative and called him suggesting they met up. He had been the perfect gentleman, listening politely as she unburdened herself while ensuring her glass was never empty. He was a good listener and an even better barman.
But the thing she remembered most was giggling. She could not recall when she had laughed so much in the company of another person. That is since Joe died, of course. She had laughed so much her jaw ached and went home, on her own, feeling warm and fuzzy.
The next morning she’d been racked with guilt, a feeling that had stayed with her ever since. She had never been unfaithful to Joe but reckoned if she had, this is what it would feel like. A weird position to take as his ashes were buried in a cemetery.
Millican had called several times following their night out but she had put him off with lame excuses. He stopped calling after a while. This was the first time they had met since that fateful evening. For a woman who was convinced she didn’t care, she had butterflies in her stomach the size of condors.
