Uncoiled Lies: a stunning crime thriller

by Liz Mistry

  He paused near a broken fence about six houses in and gazed at the semi-detached house. In the front yard a child’s swing and sandpit sat atop concrete slabs each one edged by a liberal growth of weeds. This was where Sadia had lived. For a second, he looked at the front window and imagined a small Sadia, gazing out through the darkness expecting to see a colourful firework display. The rattly wooden windows Sadia had described had been replaced by double glazing and, despite the neglected garden, Sampson could tell that the house had been upgraded during the intervening eighteen years.

  The house was separated from its neighbour by a privet hedge, badly in need of a trim. As he studied the house that had once belonged to Millie Green, the front door opened and a young woman began struggling to bump a pushchair carrying a squawking toddler down the front steps to the path. Pushchair safely deposited on the flat ground, she turned to lock the door, before mumbling something that Sampson couldn’t hear to the child and started to push the pram through the gate. Sampson nodded with a smile as she passed. It was good that the house was occupied – a young family starting out, children’s laughter to chase away the despair that must have hung over the house after Millie’s death.

  Walking on, Sampson laid his hand on the gate of the house adjoining Millie Green’s, and pushed it open. He knew that it was still occupied by the Dhosangs. According to the electoral roll, only Mr and Mrs Dhosang remained in residence. Presumably, their kids had grown up and moved away. He wondered what their memories of that fateful night were. He hoped they’d be able to add something to the information contained in the meagre file he and Sadia had read earlier.

  Before he’d even knocked on the door, it swung open and a small woman, grey hair pulled back and falling in a long plait over one shoulder, stood there. She wore a shalwar kameez and Sampson thought the brown eyes that looked up at him held a sparkiness that belied her advanced years.

  He smiled down at her. ‘Hallo, Mrs Dhosang?’

  The old lady frowned. Her skinny hand was firmly on the door jamb and looked ready to push it shut in his face if she felt at all threatened. Her tone held a challenge that made Sampson smile. ‘Yes, and you are?’

  Her English, though accented, was perfect. Sampson took out his ID and introduced himself explaining why he was there.

  ‘Hi hoi!’ said the old lady, using the same sing-song words Sampson remembered his old school friend Ranjit using. It was an expression of surprise universally used in the Indian sub-continent. Opening the door wider and gesturing him in, Mrs Dhosang continued. ‘It was a tragedy. A terrible, dreadful tragedy. That poor girl left without a mother. Hmm, and all for nothing.’ She shook her head woefully from side to side. ‘All for nothing.’

  ‘You remember that night, then?’

  Mrs Dhosang snorted, ‘Course I remember that night. How could I ever forget? I’m not in my dotage yet, young man.’ She gestured for him to follow her into a room heavily scented with incense, where a large man wearing a turban sat in an armchair. Sampson noted that the turban was an exact match to the blue of his tie. Mrs Dhosang addressed the man who laid the newspaper, folded in quarters, onto his lap. ‘We both do. Don’t we?’

  The man barely glanced at Sampson, as if he were used to his wife bringing unfamiliar people through his house. With a frown he removed his glasses and waited as Sampson held out his hand and introduced himself.

  ‘Sit,’ said Mr Dhosang, leaning back, his fingers stroking his silver striated beard. ‘You’re only about twenty years late.’

  Sampson grimaced his acknowledgment of the older man’s words and perched on the edge of a matching settee that had antimacassars draped over the back and arms, putting him in mind of his granny’s house in County Cork. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Dhosang, his eyes twinkling, ‘I know the police are busy, but eighteen years before being interviewed is ridiculous.’

  Sampson glanced at Mrs Dhosang who stood by the door, arms folded across her chest. As if satisfied that the point had been made she nodded before exiting the living room leaving Sampson alone with her husband. ‘Are you telling me that no one interviewed you at the time, Mr Dhosang?’

  ‘That’s right. No-one interviewed us then. Not that we could have said any different than anyone else, but perhaps we might have felt that the poor girl’s death was important to someone if we’d seen the police looking for reasons.’

  Mr Dhosang certainly has a point, thought Sampson. What he couldn’t decide was whether it was just police incompetence or something more sinister that had led to a half-baked investigation. He sincerely hoped that he wouldn’t discover that the police had been in the pocket of Arshad Khan or that they just didn’t care enough to investigate an ex-prostitute’s death. The world, so his dad always said, was very different in the 90s.

  On her husband’s instructions, Sampson waited until Mrs Dhosang came back, carrying a tray with a plate of biscuits and three china tea cups containing steaming, aromatic, spicy tea. Fearing that her fragile hands weren’t strong enough to carry the weight, Sampson jumped up, took the tray from her and deposited it on the large glass coffee table that separated the settee from the fireplace. ‘You shouldn’t have, Mrs Dhosang,’ he said, smiling at her.

  She shooed his protests away and busied herself with the cups. ‘I was making it when you knocked, anyway.’

  She handed Sampson his cup on a saucer and offered him a KitKat, then repeated the process with her husband before settling back with her own tea. ‘We felt he’d covered it all up, didn’t we, Perminder?’

  Despite the fact that her feet dangled three inches above the floor, Sampson sensed that this woman was a force to be reckoned with and that her husband willingly submitted to her personality. He was sure that nothing slipped past her eagle eyes.

  He took a sip of the milky tea, savouring its sweet spiciness. He loved masala chai and he’d not had any for years. Not since Ranjit got married and left Bradford, in fact. ‘Who’d you think covered it up, then?’

  Mrs Dhosang glanced at her husband, ‘Him next door to her on t’other side.’

  ‘You mean DCS Hussain?’

  ‘Oh, that’s what he is now, is it?’ she said and pursed her lips up as if she wasn’t impressed. ‘Well, he wasn’t so high up then but, he still had enough clout to keep things quiet.’

  ‘Stop talking in riddles, Harpreet,’ chided her husband. ‘Just tell the young man. He obviously needs to know now, even if it is a bit late.’

  Mrs Dhosang again pursed her lips. ‘He visited her, you know? All times of the day and night. Thought he was being careful sneaking through the hedge halfway up the back garden, but I could see him letting himself in her back door.’

  Sampson frowned in confusion. ‘Who did?’

  Her lips tight, Mrs Dhosang jerked her thumb towards Sadia’s old house, ‘Him! Hussain, that’s who.’

  Sampson bit his lip, considering the implications of Mrs Dhosang’s words. ‘Are you telling me that DCS Hussain was having an affair with Millie Green?’

  Mrs Dhosang slapped her thigh, ‘That’s right! He was having what they call “illicit relations” with Millie.’

  Shaking his head, her husband interrupted. ‘Too many soaps… she watches far too many soaps.’

  Sampson, torn between smiling at Mr Dhosang’s deadpan delivery and being horrified by his wife’s revelation, said, ‘Are you sure about this?’

  Although he’d directed the question to Mrs Dhosang it was her husband who replied. ‘Yes, she’s sure. The whole cul de sac knew about it. It was one of those sort of open secrets. Everyone felt sorry for Mrs Hussain. She was the only one who didn’t know.’

  ‘Ach, Perminder. That’s not true. She must have known. A woman always knows when her man is unfaithful. She must have known. She wasn’t blind after all.’

  Mr Dhosang shrugged, clearly intimating his disagreement with his wife’s assessment of the situation. Mrs Dhosang glared at him and then, jumping to her feet, she grabbed
the saucer from his hand. From the startled look on the other man’s face, Sampson surmised he hadn’t finished with his drink. However, it didn’t seem like he was going to complain, as his wife continued, her tone brooking no argument. ‘Well, I know it wasn’t Shahid. No matter what Jessica thought, that boy loved Millie. He was heartbroken when it happened. It must have been Hussain. That’s what we’ve always thought, isn’t it?’ She looked to her husband, who nodded.

  ‘What about Shahid’s dad?’ asked Sampson ‘Arshad Khan?’

  Mr Dhosang flicked his hand as if swatting a fly. ‘No, Arshad wasn’t interested enough. He’d moved on and anyway, wasn’t he abroad when it happened, Harpreet?’

  ‘Yes he was, but he could have hired a hitman if he’d wanted to,’ said Harpreet, her eyes sparkling as if she were relishing the thought.

  Mr Dhosang sighed and spoke in a side tone to Sampson. ‘Too much CSI too, I’m afraid. In fact, altogether too much TV, full stop.’ He turned back to his wife. ‘You know he didn’t do that. You know that he, although not a nice man, just couldn’t get enough of Millie. That’s why he paid her rent. But she knew what he was like and wanted nowt to do with him.’

  Nodding, Mrs Dhosang agreed, ‘Yes that’s true. He wasn’t interested in changing his ways. Not interested in his daughter. Only in her mum.’ She threw her hands up in the air, ‘He paid for the house and absolved himself of responsibility. And that’s how Millie liked it. She owed him nothing.’

  Sampson thought for a moment. ‘But she kept in touch with Shahid and the baby and they weren’t even her blood relatives.’

  ‘Well, Shahid didn’t like his father’s new wife but he doted on Jessica and that little lad, what was his name? Imtiaz, I think. Shahid used to bring him over all the time and Millie didn’t mind.’

  A few more questions ascertained that the Dhosangs hadn’t been alerted to what had happened until after the fire brigade arrived; nor had they heard anyone pointing fingers at anyone. So, sensing that he’d learned all he was going to from the Dhosangs, Sampson put his empty cup on the tray and stood up. He headed into the hallway, Mrs Dhosang following behind. As she removed the chain and unlocked the door for him she said, ‘One thing I never understood though, was how did he manage to cover up about the baby?’

  ‘What?’ Sampson looked down into the old woman’s eyes.

  She nodded, ‘She was pregnant, you know? Early days no more than three months gone. She told me in confidence one morning when I went over with a letter that had come to us instead of her. Just as she opened the door, she had to rush to be sick. Well, there was no point lying to me. I knew morning sickness when I saw it, so she admitted it and swore me to secrecy.’

  She paused and looked up at me with steady eyes. ‘I’ve always wondered why the Hussains moved house so suddenly after the fire.’

  Sampson nodded and then turned away, wondering what to make of everything. It seemed that the neighbourhood knew about Millie’s pregnancy and now he had another contender for the paternity of her child. Why did things have to be so complicated?

  Chapter 57

  14:10 Leeds Trinity University, Horsforth

  By the time Gus and Alice had ascertained the whereabouts of Professor Carlton’s office and weaved their way past the hordes of students milling about for the university’s open day, they were running late. Gus hated being late. It made him feel at a disadvantage and he knew that some of these academic types could be real sticklers for punctuality, regardless of the fact he was running a major investigation.

  Ignoring the twinge in his upper thigh, he took the stairs two at a time leaving Alice puffing and moaning behind him. Following the directions he’d been given at the reception he walked along a corridor, reading each of the names on the office doors as he went. At the second to last door, he paused. It bore the name Professor Carlton, and was half open. Gus could see two people inside. An elegant woman sat at the desk wearing a flowing skirt, her hair bundled on top of her head in one of those messy buns Sadia sometimes sported when she wasn’t working. Pacing the small office was a short dumpy man in an ill-fitting suit, wearing a pair of luminous green Nike trainers. A pair of thick lensed glasses, one leg held together with parcel tape, were perched at an angle across his nose. Gus hoped the professor would be able to get rid of the man quickly as he didn’t want to waste any more time than he had to.

  With Alice standing behind him, Gus rapped lightly on the door with his knuckles. Professor Carlton looked up, so he took a step into the room, hand extended and introduced himself. However, before she had a chance to shake his proffered hand, the other man snorted, ‘You see, Andrea, that’s just the sort of reverse fucking stereotyping I’ve been talking about.’

  Professor Carlton looked apologetic as she shook Gus’ hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, DI McGuire but, I’m not actually Professor Carlton. This,’ she turned to her male colleague, who with his chest thrust out, looked like a triumphant penguin, ‘…is Professor Sebastian Carlton.’

  Gus blinked, trying to reconcile the fact that he’d probably offended Professor Carlton with the information that the man in front of him bore the comparatively exotic name of Sebastian. He’d never met anyone less like a Sebastian. Looking sheepish, Gus grinned, realising that the other man’s ‘reverse stereotyping’ comment was all too accurate. He hoped that Carlton didn’t bear grudges.

  Professor Carlton gripped Gus’s hand in a very firm hold and continued as if he’d not been interrupted. ‘Just been talking to Andrea here about how, in this day and age of being “PC”,’ he enclosed the letters PC by bending two chubby nicotine stained fingers in the air, ‘we’re at risk of introducing reverse stereotypes. Take what happened just then. ‘He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, making them wobble even more. ‘You knew one of us had to be Professor Carlton and, rather than opt for the male “Prof”,’ again air quotes with his chubby fingers, ‘which, statistically, would have been correct seventy-eight per cent of the time, you opted for the PC option which, had only a twenty-two per cent chance of accuracy, as reported by the Higher Education Statistics Agency 2013 to 2014.’

  He peered at Gus and grinned. ‘As I said, reverse stereotyping.’

  Gus couldn’t prevent the smile that spread across his face. There was something incredibly likeable about this man. ‘Actually, Professor Carlton, not that I want to burst your bubble, but my deduction wasn’t based on reverse stereotyping by sex, but rather, I’m ashamed to admit it, through stereotyping by appearance.’

  Carlton studied Gus for a minute and then, flinging his head back, he chortled, reminding Gus of a smaller, non-Scottish version of his dad, ‘Ah, the fucking scruffy man with his glasses taped up is statistically less likely to be a professor than the à la Primark elegant Andrea? Well, that’s another variable I’ll pose to my third-year imbeciles. They need something to get their brains geared up.’ He waved his fingers at Andrea, ‘Toddle off then, I’ve got to talk to the police now. You can bail me out later if they arrest me.’

  Andrea shook her head in way that told Gus she was well used to her colleague’s idiosyncrasies, ‘Yeah you’ll be lucky. If you’re banged up, I’d have peace and quiet. What makes you think I’d jeopardise that by bailing you out?’

  Carlton sashayed over to the chair she’d vacated and plonked himself down, clasping his fingers together over his chest, ‘Ah, but you’d miss my suave wit and incisive humour.’

  Andrea snorted and turned to Gus and Alice, ‘Well, good luck with him… you’ll need it.’

  Sebastian Carlton waved them into the two visitor’s chairs opposite his desk and placed his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers under his chin. After Gus had moved a pile of paperwork onto the edge of the already overflowing desk and sat down, Carlton spoke. ‘So, what do you expect me to tell you?’

  Gus shrugged. ‘To be honest, we’d be grateful for anything that would point us in the right direction.’

  Carlton nodded and moved his computer m
ouse. After a few moments studying the screen he said, ‘Well, let’s see. First up, because of the limited amount of time I’ve had to study this, my offerings are purely provisional, okay?’

  Gus nodded.

  Seemingly satisfied, Carlton continued, ‘Your DCS is a bit of an arse, isn’t he?’ He winked at Alice. ‘Don’t answer that. I’ll make my own judgements. His agenda wasn’t for me to help you. He just wanted to piss on your parade. I could have emailed you my findings, saved you some time but he was insistent you trail out here to get them. Fucking wasting my time too. Hmph! Never mind, I’ll tell you what I’ve got but it’s not much… nor, I suspect, is it anything you’ve not considered yourselves.’

  Gus risked a glance at Alice. It was good to have his own opinions of Hussain’s motives reinforced by a renowned forensic profiler and judging by Alice’s smug expression, she was pleased, too.

  Carlton pushed his specs back up into position. ‘The first two women and the fourth one were attacked, I reckon, by the same person. The third one was a “copycat”. I’m only giving you the highlights now. I’ll send you the reasoning later.’

  That tallied with Gus’ thoughts on the killings too, which of course meant they were dealing with not one but two murderers. He hoped that Trixie’s killer wouldn’t opt to increase his body count to match the other one.

  With a sniff, Professor Carlton pursed his lips, as if gathering his thoughts before beginning, ‘It’s not a crazed serial killer as the press are speculating. The MO and forensic reports indicate that Camilla, Starlight and Charlotte were attacked by the same perp, excuse the Americanism, but I’ve just got back from Quantico.’ His expression indicated he wasn’t wholly enamoured with his most recent foray to the FBI headquarters,