A Price to Pay

by Paul Gitsham

  ‘There was never any question.’

  According to her police record, Kourtney Flitton was twenty-eight years old, but despite the acne covering her cheeks, could easily have passed for twenty years older. She’d been known to the authorities for over a decade, first for soliciting, and then for minor drugs offences. A short spell in prison had only served to deepen her dependency, and by the time she returned to the street, she’d developed a full-blown heroin habit.

  After a brief period sleeping rough, she’d taken up with another user and now rented a squalid bedsit on the other side of town. It was hardly a fairy-tale ending; her boyfriend was, to all intents and purposes, also her pimp, and according to the file, responsible for her missing front teeth.

  ‘I ain’t done nothing,’ she insisted, her arms crossed defiantly. Beside her, the duty solicitor made notes on her pad.

  Warren passed a headshot of Joey McGhee across the desk. It had been taken by a mortuary technician after Jordan had finished with his body.

  ‘Do you know this man?’

  ‘Never met him,’ she said, not even looking at the photo.

  ‘Look at it properly, please,’ said Warren, his voice quiet, but firm.

  Flitton gave a dramatic sigh and looked at the photo. Her eyes narrowed. ‘I might have seen him around.’

  She was too smart to make an outright denial; if Warren then produced evidence showing the two of them together, her lies would look bad.

  ‘Did you sell him heroin on, or after, Monday the 9th of November?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Again, she wasn’t going to commit herself.

  Warren pushed another photograph across the table. ‘Your fingerprints were found on this plastic bag, which chemical tests have shown contained traces of diamorphine, better known as heroin.’

  Flitton paused, before clearly deciding it wasn’t worth denying the accusation. ‘He’s a mate. I just gave him a spare baggie I found lying around.’

  It wasn’t a bad shot at a defence; a search of her bedsit, after it had been raided immediately following her arrest, had revealed only enough heroin for personal use, and no money to speak of. Her boyfriend had been nowhere to be seen. Warren’s opposite number in the drug squad, DCI Carl Mallucci, had suggested that the couple were such small dealers, their supplier probably only gave them a couple of days’ worth of supply at a time, and the boyfriend was off buying their next batch. If Warren had waited a few hours, he might have caught them with more. He ignored the implied rebuke; he and Mallucci had butted heads in the past over Warren’s insistence that a murder inquiry was more important than a drugs investigation.

  ‘When did you last see Joey?’

  She shrugged. ‘A few days ago.’

  ‘And that was when you sold him the heroin?’

  ‘I didn’t sell it, I gave it to him.’ She glared at him. The distinction was a fine one, and few people would believe that she gave her product away freely, but she was clearly going to stick with that line.

  ‘That’s very generous of you,’ said Pymm, mildly.

  Flitton shrugged.

  ‘How much is a bag of heroin worth these days, Kourtney?’ Pymm continued.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I don’t sell it.’

  ‘But you must pay for it when you buy it,’ said Pymm.

  Flitton licked her lips. ‘My boyfriend gets it for me.’

  It was clear that Flitton thought that she had been pulled in on a charge of possession with intent to supply, and that by refusing to admit that she was selling or buying drugs, she might just get them to drop it. Warren decided to increase the pressure.

  ‘Joey was found dead, from a heroin overdose, two days ago. This plastic bag – with your fingerprints on it, was found next to his body.’

  Flitton paled, her acne standing out even more. Possession with intent to supply was one thing, but the death of a client from product that could be directly linked to the dealer was something entirely different. The judge would probably consider a tariff at the higher end of the sentencing guidelines.

  ‘No way – that ain’t possible.’

  ‘Why isn’t it possible, Kourtney?’ asked Warren.

  ‘There ain’t enough there to kill someone,’ she said.

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Pymm.

  For the first time since being arrested, Flitton looked scared. ‘Because I’ve taken it myself. It’s the same batch.’ She shook her head. ‘Send it to the lab – the stuff’s shite. We cut it with paracetamol to make it go further.’

  ‘Which is probably why he used two lots,’ said Pymm. ‘He injected himself twice. The heroin you sold him was so poor, he decided to do a second bag – that’s why he overdosed.’

  Flitton relaxed slightly. ‘Then you’re barking up the wrong tree. I only sold him one bag.’

  ‘Really?’ Pymm didn’t try to hide the scepticism in her voice. ‘So he went and found another dealer, and bought a second bag? Is your reputation that bad, he didn’t even buy the second bag from you?’

  ‘I don’t know where he got the second bag, but it weren’t from me,’ snapped Flitton. ‘He only asked for one bag and he only had a tenner on him.’

  McGhee had been found with a twenty-pound note and a ten-pound note in his sock, and a few pence in his pocket. Flashing your cash in front of a drug dealer was rarely a good idea. However, it meant that unless he’d found some money from somewhere else, he’d only bought one bag of heroin with the money Warren had given him, spending a few pounds on a chip supper, and saving the rest. Warren felt a little better, knowing that his money hadn’t been used to buy all of the heroin that McGhee had overdosed on.

  ‘Tell me, Kourtney,’ said Pymm, ‘do you charge extra for the needles, or do you give them away for free?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Joey was found with a needle that matches the ones that you keep in your flat.’

  ‘Well there you go,’ said Flitton. ‘I never gave him a needle. He never asked for one. Either he got it from the same place I do, the needle exchange at the chemist on Troot Street, or he got it from whoever he bought that second bag of heroin from. The dodgy batch, the one that killed him,’ she emphasized.

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t give him the needle?’ asked Warren.

  ‘Yes. I got a couple of spares on me, if people ask, but I ain’t a fucking charity.’

  ‘Then why,’ asked Pymm, ‘were your fingerprints on packaging for the needle that Joey used to inject himself with?’

  ‘She didn’t see that coming,’ said Pymm in satisfaction.

  Flitton had requested a break to speak to her solicitor, and they’d taken the opportunity to make a hot drink.

  Pymm watched Warren spooning coffee into his cup approvingly. ‘See, I told you that you’d get used to decaf. It’s much better for you.’

  Warren kept his mouth shut, pushing away the feeling of guilt at his deception. There was no way that Pymm could know he’d simply poured normal coffee into a decaf jar to stop her nagging. Pymm took a slurp of her own drink, a pale-yellow concoction that smelt like a packet of extra-strong mints.

  ‘You’re right, she didn’t see that coming, and that’s what worries me,’ said Warren, ‘in fact, I’d go as far as to say that she looks as though she thought what we said wasn’t possible.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘The look on her face suggested that she knew absolutely nothing about that needle.’

  ‘Well that’s just silly – I know the fingerprints were only a partial match, but the odds that we’d get two unrelated partial matches on the same case, when we know that she and McGhee have a relationship, are incalculable.’

  ‘Exactly. And that’s what worries me.’

  ‘What else is worrying you?’ Pymm asked. ‘You’re looking at the honesty jar like you’ve never seen it before.’

  ‘I could have sworn there was more in here yesterday.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I bring
my own tea bags.’

  ‘I’d hardly call it tea.’

  ‘Funny man.’

  ‘Seriously though, I could have sworn there was at least thirty quid in here. I was going to do a run down to Tesco to buy some more coffee and biscuits.’

  ‘Are you sure? Maybe people haven’t had as many cups of coffee as you thought, so not as much money has been put in the jar.’

  ‘Now who’s being funny? You know I’m the only person who puts any bloody money in here.’

  Pymm peered into the jar. ‘There’s a five-pound note in there. Maybe someone swapped it for a load of coins for the vending machine?’

  It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened; Warren had been fighting a losing battle for years to get his colleagues to contribute to the coffee fund. Most completely ignored the jar, whilst some of the cheekier ones used it as a ready source of change.

  ‘The fiver’s mine. I didn’t have any coins. There was definitely a load of fifty-pence pieces in there.’

  Flitton still looked worried when she finally returned with her solicitor, after an hour-long break. She also looked twitchy and uncomfortable; she was evidently starting to need her next fix.

  ‘I never gave Joey a needle, and I only sold him one bag of heroin.’

  ‘Then how do you explain the fingerprints, Kourtney?’ asked Warren.

  ‘I dunno,’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I reckon you’re trying to stitch me up. Somebody killed Joey and now you lot are trying to pin the blame on me. I ain’t stupid, I’ve read about this sort of thing on the internet. You lot do this all the time.’

  Warren repressed a sigh. Desperate junkies needing a fix, and conspiracy theories were not a good mix. From the look on her solicitor’s face, her own legal counsel wasn’t a fan of her client’s premise either.

  ‘I can assure you, Kourtney, neither I, nor my officers, have any reason to try and falsely implicate you.’

  ‘Then how did my fingerprints get on the needle packaging?’ she demanded. ‘I never gave him a fucking needle. Unless he nicked the needle off the bloke that turned up after him, I can’t see where he got it from.’ Suddenly she brightened. ‘Maybe that’s what happened! Maybe he mugged my next customer, stole his drugs and needle and then overdosed.’ She sat back, crossing her arms in triumph.

  ‘What bloke?’ asked Pymm.

  ‘Oh, I dunno. Just some bloke. He turned up a couple of minutes after Joey. He bought a bag, and then asked if I had any spare needles.’ She shrugged. ‘Cheeky bastard, but what you going to do?’

  ‘Did you know him?’ asked Pymm.

  ‘No, never seen him before.’ Her tone was firm. Warren wasn’t sure if he believed her or not.

  ‘Can you describe the man?’ asked Warren.

  She thought for a moment, before shrugging. ‘Not really. It was dark, and he had his hood up. I didn’t see his face.’

  ‘What about his build? Was he tall or short? Fat or thin?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whined. ‘It was late, and I’d been smoking weed – you know, just to take the edge off.’

  Pymm sighed and took her glasses off. Rubbing them on her jumper, she looked over at Warren. ‘I think she’s wasting our time, Boss. She’s just trying to save her own skin, so she doesn’t go down for ten years.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ squeaked Flitton. ‘I’m telling you, I only sold Joey one baggie and I never gave him that needle. There’s no way he overdosed on one bag of heroin.’

  Warren sighed. He steepled his fingers in front of him. When he started speaking, his tone was sympathetic. ‘Look, Kourtney, you’ve got to help us out here. It’s really not looking good for you. Joey died after injecting two bags of heroin, both of which came from you. He used a needle, which again was supplied by you.’

  ‘But he stole them off some other guy. That’s not my fault, is it?’ She turned to her solicitor who shrugged.

  ‘You claim that this man exists, but you can’t give us a description. Did you keep the money he paid with?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘So no fingerprints then. The only prints on the packaging were yours and Joey’s.’ Warren turned. ‘I think you may be right, DS Pymm, I’m not sure this person even exists.’

  ‘He was wearing gloves.’

  ‘What colour?’ asked Warren quickly.

  ‘Umm, black. Leather, I think.’

  ‘What was he wearing?’

  She paused. ‘A hoodie, I think.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Black? Maybe?’ She put her face in her hands. ‘I don’t know, I can’t remember.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  She nodded, for the first time tears starting to form in her eyes.

  ‘I think we’ve heard enough for the time being,’ said Warren. ‘Interview suspended.’

  ‘No wait,’ she suddenly shouted.

  ‘I remember now, he was northern.’

  ‘What does “northern” even mean?’ asked Grimshaw.

  Kourtney Flitton’s interview had sparked significant debate amongst the team.

  ‘This far south, anywhere north of Cambridge,’ said Martinez. The man had a point: Warren had been fighting a losing battle for years to convince his colleagues in Hertfordshire that coming from the West Midlands didn’t make him a northerner. To make it worse, Karen Hardwick thought he sounded like Lenny Henry, who was from Dudley, part of the Black Country!

  ‘It’s still a hell of a coincidence though,’ said Hutchinson, who was himself from Newcastle, but after years of living down south only sounded like a Geordie after a few beers. ‘She blurted it out unprompted.’

  ‘Coincidences do happen,’ said Martinez, ‘but leaving that aside, do we even believe her? She’s desperate to save her own skin. If she sold Joey McGhee enough heroin for him to kill himself, she is looking at the top end of the sentencing guidelines for intent to supply.’

  Martinez did have a point. Warren turned to Bergen. ‘Any thoughts, Ian?’

  Bergen shrugged. ‘I don’t know what to say, Warren. Northern accent, black hoodie? There’s no point even running that through our files. I’ll put the word out to Carl Mallucci’s team, but if this guy isn’t even a regular user and just bought it as a one-off to kill Joey McGhee, I doubt he’s even known to them.’

  Warren thanked the team.

  It was frustrating, but he knew that there was little he could do about it. He couldn’t even justify keeping Flitton in detention beyond twenty-four hours. They had enough to charge her with intent to supply, but deciding if she was in any way responsible for McGhee’s overdose would be the coroner’s job. In the meantime, she would have to be released on bail.

  He just hoped that she decided to stick around and face the music. If they ever did track down Northern Man, he’d like to run some mugshots past her; hopefully she might not have been as stoned as she claimed.

  Chapter 51

  Warren was talking to Ian Bergen in the car park when Janice came and found him, to tell him that Ryan Jordan had just phoned. Warren made it back to his office in record time to return his call.

  The pathologist’s voice was weary, his American accent more pronounced than usual.

  ‘I just finished the PM on the baby.’

  Warren steeled himself, the image of the tiny bundle under the leaves flashing back to him. He felt the heat rise in his cheeks.

  ‘What did you find?’ Warren managed.

  ‘The remains were almost skeletal, but it’s clear the baby was nonviable. From the size and development of the long bones, I’d estimate between five and six months’ gestation.’

  ‘How …?’

  ‘There were traces of what appears to be placental tissue, and the remains of the umbilical cord. I’d say the mother gave birth very prematurely.’ Jordan’s tone was professional, but Warren could hear the tenderness in his voice. ‘We’ll probably never know for sure, but the baby was likely stillborn. Even if it wasn’t, I doubt it survived very long.’

&nbs
p; The pathologist’s voice faded into the background, drowned out by the sudden roaring of blood in Warren’s ears. He felt light-headed. Grasping the edge of his desk, he forced himself to focus on Jordan’s voice.

  ‘… too decomposed to work out the baby’s sex, but a chromosome count will tell us that when they do the DNA. I’ve also taken a sample from the placental material; with any luck we’ll also get a maternal profile.’

  Somehow, Warren forced his mouth to thank the man before he hung up.

  Six months old. Warren and Susan’s unborn children had been much younger than that, but he still couldn’t get the image of what had lain beneath the leaves out of his head. Would the babies have been recognisable at that stage? How big would they have been? Susan had not yet begun to feel the babies kick and move. Did that mean they were too small or were they already struggling to survive?

  Suddenly Warren was on his hands and knees, scrabbling under the desk for the wastepaper bin. He’d eaten hardly anything all day, and the vomit left the taste of acid and coffee in his mouth. Was it too late to hand over the case to someone else?

  ‘Warren, I need a word.’ John Grayson looked grim, as he ushered Warren into his office. Warren hoped that the mints he had eaten disguised the smell of vomit on his breath. At least he’d managed not to be sick on his tie.

  Grayson sat down behind his desk and steepled his fingers. The atmosphere in the room was heavy. Warren braced himself.

  ‘Joey McGhee. Care to tell me what happened?’

  ‘He was found dead, from a suspected overdose on Monday.’

  ‘I see. And this was after your interview with him, the previous Monday.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happened after the interview?’

  Warren sighed. Grayson hadn’t invited him to take a seat or offered him coffee. It was clear that a bollocking was on the cards.

  ‘I walked him to reception. He had probably missed evening meal down at the Sikh Community Centre and had nowhere to stay that night. I gave him some money so he could buy some food and get into a shelter.’

  Grayson looked pained. ‘Christ, Warren, have you taken leave of your senses? The man was a heroin addict, and you gave him money? Money that he then spent on drugs that killed him.’