He heard the fridge door open as she continued the task at hand. He rubbed his face again and took a deep breath as he tried to steady his nerves, uncertain as to what he would find inside the Nottingham Today and what his reaction to that would be. He didn’t want to be reacting badly to any article inside the paper in front of his wife. He had to get a grip of himself.
The milk sloshed into the cups and he unfolded the paper.
There was nothing in there about digoxin. He raged inside. Feeling as though he was holding a wild animal within, clawing and fighting to get out, but he had to sit here and be calm and civilised, because that’s what they were, him and Connie.
Civilised.
If he was so civilised he wouldn’t be doing this, he understood that, somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind. But that comprehension was so far embedded in the depth of his despair that there was no carving it out and dragging it into the light. The pain and anger driving him forward pained him, nearly as much as the reason for it.
But, he couldn’t stop now.
50
The evidence we had now seized from Angela Evans’, Finlay McDonnell’s and Lianne Beers’ respective addresses made a mountainous sight. During briefing, I’d tasked Ross with being the exhibits officer for the case which meant every single exhibit that came through on this job had to then go to him to be logged on the main case log. I could see in his eyes that he hated such a paper intensive role but like a scolded puppy he had put his head down and got on with it. It was an important role but it was also station based, so I would be able to keep a close eye on him. As well as the visit to Curvet we were looking at who in the county was currently prescribed digoxin. This hadn’t been an easy action to initiate as patient confidentiality had previously prevented all this information being collated together in one place, but once the Health and Social Care Information Centre had started compiling all medical information anonymously with patients listed only as numbers, several police forces had put in requests for a database with names to be added, for instances such as this. We now had a database running where we could search the drug in our county and see who was prescribed it. The new database known as HEAD (Health Explained and Accepted Data) was being trialed in Nottinghamshire, Lincolnshire, Essex and the West Midlands. We were lucky that we were one of the forces in the trial, otherwise we would not have been able to access the details of people being prescribed digoxin, just their patient number. What the hell use was that when people were dying in the streets, I didn’t know.
There were a lot of ongoing enquiries. As I mused this over, I stood and watched Ross record all the new items that had been brought in.
Finlay’s parents had sat there helplessly as we worked our way through their house and removed everything from foodstuff to personal hygiene products and cleaning items. Their shock at his death was no doubt compounded by the emptying of their home and of Finlay’s personal items. It wasn’t easy doing this, but not only did we need to find out what had happened to him, we didn’t know if his parents or siblings were at risk. If that risk was still in the home. Their silence filled the house like a heavy weight. When we left, they thanked us. Now we had the task of working through all of this stuff with the CSU to identify the culprit and from there, find out where the item had been bought.
Ross had his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hair flopping down over his face as he worked. He used to take such pride in his looks. Sally would tease him that he was a pretty boy. His hair immaculately groomed with wax holding every strand in place, his face smooth and young. Fresh. Eager. Now his face no longer had that fresh-faced youthful appearance, though I knew we had all changed over this past six month period.
The surgery had repaired the wound in my arm. Fixed me up externally. But there was the ongoing physio to strengthen the arm and muscle back up, as well as the insidious pain I lived with. A permanent reminder I hadn’t been able to save Sally, no matter how hard I had tried. That was a wound, which for me would take some time to heal. And Martin had taken to living his life more energetically when he wasn’t at work. Every opportunity he had, he was away with his wife and two dogs, or with his mates, taking on the country roads on their motorbikes.
Aaron. Aaron, I couldn’t fathom. His surface was dark and his depths unseen. I just hoped he was talking to someone.
51
It had been warm all day but there was a chill to the apartment. It was always colder inside than it was outside, the hardwood flooring and painted walls keeping it cool. I dropped my keys on the table and went straight for the kitchen, where I had a bottle of Merlot open on the side. Putting my bag on the worktop, I pulled a glass out of the cupboard then rummaged through my bag for the painkillers. They went down easily with the wine. The throbbing was unbearable. The pain deep. Intense. Close. Personal.
I put the cool wine glass to my forehead and breathed.
What a day.
What a week.
What on earth was happening to my life?
Grabbing my bag, which contained the Nottingham Today I’d brought home, I walked over to the sofa and made myself comfortable. We were front-page headlines. Ethan’s dream to move on to a national paper might come true. But at what cost?
I read the article again, wine glass propped against my forehead.
Detectives are baffled as to the motive of the killer as no demands have been received and no one particular product, item or source has been identified as being the target.
Police have stated that they are working all the angles and will update the public as soon as they know anything further. They ask that everyone is vigilant and self-aware.
No one can say if the killer will strike again and if so, where that will be.
It felt strange reading the article he had written, especially with being the SIO of the investigation. The pressure at work was immense and this outside element, the press watching so keenly and Ethan most of all, really didn’t help.
I picked up my phone, took a slug of Merlot and dialled. The Today in my lap, headline face up, Ethan’s name mocking me.
‘Hannah.’ A note of surprise in his voice.
‘Hi, Ethan.’ What now?
‘It’s good to hear from you. How are you?’
‘How do you think?’
‘I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking. And it’s not like you to make first contact. I’m glad you phoned.’
‘Are you?’ I took another drink. Why was I being so antagonistic? Things had been okay between us when we’d been out for the meal. Admittedly I wasn’t expecting the ending. And at the station it was, I don’t know, but I had no real reason to have a go at him for being him.
‘Yes. Of course I am, Han. I’ve told you I’m there for you. I’m just not sure where your head’s at, what you want. It’s why I give you the space you need.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘I try to talk to you but you won’t listen, you won’t take my calls. You pushed me away after ...’
Ah, blame. ‘Is that why you’re going after me now, Ethan? Because I wouldn’t take your calls?’
‘Going after you?’
‘In the Today. The headlines.’
‘God, no. That’s work. And you know that’s not even heavy, Han. It’s reporting of facts, what I do. The job’s interesting as well. We’ve never had anything like this in Notts. Come on, I’m not doing this to you. I know you’ll be doing everything for this case.’ I wanted to have his arms around me and for him to make everything all right like he used to, but nothing would be right again. I’d failed and I deserved what I was getting.
‘I’m sorry I phoned.’
‘Don’t go Hannah, we can talk. Let’s talk. I can—’
‘I’m sorry, Ethan.’ I was, I felt so frustrated. I didn’t know how to sort this mess out. I wanted him, but how could I be with him when we were both working the same case again? We’d worked the same case before and look how well that had gone.
I ended the call,
Ethan’s voice echoing in my head. The softness with which he said he wanted to talk. The callousness with which I’d hung up the call. What had got into me that was making me such a bitch? I missed him; but I didn’t know how we could make this right. Too much water had gone under the bridge. That had been made obvious when we went out that last time.
We’d been together at a period in time that had caused a crack in a relationship that was too new to be able to survive it. Our jobs had caused that crack to open up into a crevasse too big to cross.
52
Zamaan Khaleel stood behind the counter of the corner shop, his corner shop, reading the paper. He skimmed through the paragraphs, looking for people he knew, areas and items of interest that might affect him and his local community. He did it every day. Living and working here in Stapleford for all of his adult life meant that he knew everyone and he knew their business. The downside to that was that they also knew his. He used his forefinger and thumb to separate two stuck pages as a couple of youths he knew walked in. He knew them to be about twenty years of age. Bouncing on the balls of their feet, jeans hanging from somewhere mid arse. He split the pages and turned one over.
His daughter was only two and as she slept upstairs in the comfort of her surroundings with the protection of her mother, Zamaan worried about her. About the life she would have. They had a profitable business here. Their shop was the only one nearby when local residents needed their fags or a chocolate fix in the evening and the big supermarkets that were closing a lot of businesses down were too far away, so they had a stable income. He wasn’t worried about that. But he worried that the teachings he would provide for his daughter would not be enough to save her from the trappings of westernised ways and behaviours.
An article caught his eye. Three deaths in the city, police were appealing for witnesses and the media were sensationalising it. The article elaborated on the differences between the victims. The ages. The locations of death. One of the victims died publicly on a bus. A third on the street. The reporter knew one thing for certain, that the police had no current suspects for the three deaths, and no idea if there were going to be any further or how to stop them. He postulated that the poison could have got into the victims by any means, but at this stage, with such variety of people, it was likely to have been through food or drink. Of which sort, they couldn’t say. In fact the article couldn’t say an awful lot, if you looked at it properly.
Zamaan wondered about the source and hoped it would be sorted soon, then turned the page again. The only other crime articles in this one were to do with too much car crime and a robbery in the city centre where the offender had used a flick knife to obtain a wallet and mobile phone from a man in a suit, no doubt already walking about with his phone in his hand, looking face down towards the pavement. Not that he should need to look around him, but times had changed.
As he turned the page Khaleel heard a wet thud come from the back of the shop. He could no longer see the two lads who had not long ago entered. The shop was filled with shelving and cardboard display units, which held items like chocolate or cheap wines and beers. It was crammed with as much as he could get into it and this was at the expense of having clear sight of everywhere.
A deep-throated laugh went up and another joined it, both turning into higher-pitched excited laughter. Khaleel closed his paper and hoped Farzaana stayed upstairs with their daughter, Salimah. An uncomfortable feeling was running through him.
He rested both hands, palms open and down, on top of the paper and sighed. He looked under the counter, the little red light assured him the CCTV was in working condition and recording. He kept his stance open and non-threatening, his mobile sitting to the side where it had been pushed as he’d opened up the newspaper.
A third male walked into the shop. Khaleel recognised him as another regular. Slightly older than the two already at the rear. He was short for a male and wore his blond hair slicked back. A black leather jacket and brown pointed shoes were his trademark items of clothing. He appeared to carry a lot of weight with the younger group. Khaleel pulled his phone nearer to him. A cackle went up at the rear of the shop and as the older male went out of sight towards the others, silence descended.
He dialled Farzaana. She picked up on the first ring. ‘You know you’ll wake the baby. What are you doing?’ she barbed at him straight away.
‘Hush. Listen to me.’
‘What is it?’
‘Whatever you hear downstairs. Do not come down. Are you listening to me?’ His voice was low. Rushed.
‘Why? What is this about, Zamaan? What about Salimah?’
‘Just stay upstairs. You’ll be safe. I don’t know. It’s a feeling.’ He was ready to put the phone down. Something else was thrown now. The sound of low thudding and growing excitement. His nerves were fraying. No longer were his palms face down. His free hand was tapping out a beat on the edge of the counter top and it wasn’t a melody.
‘Zamaan, you’re scaring me.’ She looked to him for support, protection. Everything a husband should do and he took his role seriously. They were his family; he was going to protect them. These people just wanted to blow off steam. He knew others like them, had stood up to them and they backed away, but he didn’t want his wife or daughter down here just in case.
His voice cracked under the strain. ‘Do as I say. Do not come downstairs. Whatever you hear. Phone for the police if you become frightened and I don’t come up. You have your family. They are a good family. They will take good care of you. Of both of you.’ He was being overly cautious now. All it would take was for him to stand up to them. But there was a weird vibe in the air. He was uncomfortable. He couldn’t phone the police now simply because he was uncomfortable. What kind of man would that make him anyway?
He didn’t hear her cries in response. Zamaan put the phone down and came from behind the counter.
53
Zamaan Khaleel tried to live a good life. He’d done as his parents asked and married Farzaana. They’d had their first child and planned to have a second very soon. The business was booming. People around here wasted money easily, on the things in life that were not important, so his family both here and back in India prospered. Today these things worried him as he stepped from behind the relative safety of the shop counter. A barrier to all those who entered his shop, his livelihood. His stomach twisted in on itself causing pain and a feeling that he really needed to go to the toilet as he heard more things being thrown. Thudding, laughter, the noise of items falling from shelves onto cold, hard floor tiles. There was something in the laughter though, it wasn’t all fun, there was a heightened sense of pack mentality, of – fear. He knew what it was because he was feeling it so acutely now, but why? Why were they in his shop feeling and acting this way?
Khaleel turned the corner where the nappies, cotton wool, cotton buds, and powdered milk were shelved and saw the three men. Their lips stretched tight across their teeth as they howled with laughter. On the floor at their feet and around the wider area were fresh fruit and vegetables. Cartons of fruit juice spilled their contents from cracks in their sides, like leaking rivers breaking their banks.
‘Can I help you?’ It was the only thing he could think of to say. Benign and helpless, but what else could he offer? These were customers. People he knew and saw on a regular basis. They were his community.
The older male looked at him. Straight in the eyes. No menace or malice.
‘You know what they’re saying don’t you, Zamaan?’
A pain twitched in his head above his eye. He didn’t move.
‘What who are saying?’
‘The papers?’
He brought his thumb up and massaged the spot that throbbed.
‘What are they saying and what does it have to do with me?’ Zamaan voice was intentionally low. Conversational.
‘We’re being poisoned. All of us. Any of us.’ He had an apple in his hand and he threw it at the floor. It landed with another thud and juice spraye
d up to the group of men who stood around it. No one moved from its path.
Khaleel now dug his thumb into his head and drove it towards the pain as though he could push it out the other side.
‘And my fruit and vegetables, my stock? How do they come into this? I’ve served you a long time. Haven’t I always been good to you?’
‘Use your head, Zamaan. You could be a target as much as we could. We could be targeted through you. We’re doing you a service now. You don’t want these goods in your shop. Anything not sealed you want rid of. We’re helping.’
The younger two bounced on the souls of their feet. The sense of good, of empowerment, flowing into them, driving them. ‘Yeah, we’re helping, look.’ One picked up two oranges and threw them at the shelves, knocking even more bottles from their places.
‘No! Stop.’ He couldn’t help himself. This destruction was unnecessary. He’d read no such thing. ‘Just stop. Leave my shop alone. Out. Out. You have to get out!’ His hands waved them away. Towards the door. It was too much. They had lost their minds. This wasn’t the way to behave.
Another apple went past his head and skittled boxes of fruit bars down to the floor. There was so much mess and the laughter had started up again. The older male looked at Khaleel as though he was to blame, that he hadn’t listened; a look of annoyance mixed with pity. Zamaan couldn’t take it. This was his life. He was building a future here. For his family. He stepped forward, the ground wet and slick under his feet, his hands waving towards the door. ‘You must go now. You must go now.’
‘No, we don’t go; we have to destroy the poison in here. They’re poisoning us. Weren’t you listening? Are you deaf?’ Laughter again. Like hyenas. He needed them out. His head throbbed. His shop was a mess. ‘Here, see if this helps with the deafness.’ An orange came hurtling towards him. It hit his head, catching him off balance. He threw his arms out even wider, his shoes trying for purchase on the floor but it was slick with fruit juices of every description. His hand caught the edge of the cold metallic shelving unit but he was already going down, his feet had started to let him down. A pain shot through his arm as it scraped and banged against the units. When finally he could hold on no more, he collapsed in a heap on the floor with the rest of the smashed-up fruit and veg, in front of the watching men. His head slammed down hard onto the metal shelving, his temple forcibly hitting the corner of the stand and the world went black. There was no more mess for Zamaan Khaleel to see.
The DI Hannah Robbins Series: Books 1 - 3 (Boxset) (Detective Hannah Robbins Crime Series) Page 33
