Oleander Soul

by James Arklie

  There was a stolen, or Jo would claim, borrowed supermarket trolley for transferring the stores and Ollie started loading it from her list. When she finished her eyes were more accustomed to the dim light. She could see more of what was in the space. It looked like it was shared with one of the junk shops. There were stacks of chairs, old tables, some children’s trikes and what looked like three tall stacks of vinyl on an old sideboard.

  She had time to take a quick look. Maybe a few old Motowns in there that could find their way back to the apartment. Bring a little joy to her day.

  Two paces short, she took a step and the floor collapsed beneath her. It was sudden, one moment she was walking, the next in mid-air.

  She landed on something large that cracked and gave way but broke her fall. It left her lying on her back. She was gasping, more in shock than being winded.

  ‘What the shit, Oleander. What have you gone and done to yourself now?’

  She gave herself a couple of seconds to listen to her body, waiting for any pain to kick in that told her she’d done something serious. There was nothing, but it was pitch black and she wanted to examine her body.

  She eased herself carefully to her feet and reached in her pocket for her mobile, flicked on the torchlight and shone it down her front and legs. Then twisted to look behind her. Nothing, other than a lot of dust. Then she swept the beam round the space to see what had broken her fall. Dust motes danced in the air.

  There were three old suitcases standing in a row. She’d landed on one at the end and the contents had spilled out. She leant forward and casually tugged away a piece of red rag.

  Then her world span.

  ​​ * * *

  Andy pulled into the kerb and Small jumped out, planting her feet firmly in front of Amal Khan. He had a carrier bag in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

  He made a pissed off face and spat sideways onto the pavement. ‘What now?’

  ‘Jump in, Amal. Let’s have quick chat.’ She opened the rear door. He looked at her for a few seconds, sighed and ducked in. Andy pulled out into the traffic.

  Small turned sideways in her seat to face him. Andy glanced in the rearview mirror. Small said, ‘Your friend of yesterday was not police.’ She smiled dangerously. ‘So, who was he? What was he to you?’

  Amal frowned. ‘Was?’

  ‘Do you not watch television? He was pulled from the Thames yesterday.’

  Amal’s eyes rolled in his head. ‘Shit.’

  He looked at Small, glanced at Andy’s face in the mirror, licked at dry lips.

  ‘He came to me a couple of weeks ago. Had ID. It said he was NCA. Mike Stockton. God’s truth.’

  Small could hear the panic in his voice, worried that trouble was coming his way. She glanced in the mirror at Andy. ‘You sure about that name?’

  ‘Absolutely. You have to know who you’re dealing with.’

  ‘What did he want? Why was he paying you?’

  Amal shifted his weight. ‘He wanted me to put Oleander Soul out onto the street. Said he would pay three month’s rent.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He said the NCA were close to proving she was involved in some drug ring. Put her on to the street, under pressure and make her do something stupid to give it away. Nail her for that and I get revenge for Stephan.’

  ‘Was Stephan involved with drugs?’

  ‘He tried to cook his own, but not in my house.’

  ‘Soul?’

  ‘Used to be addicted but never saw her take anything. I think she was clean.’

  Small stared at him until he shifted his weight in the seat. ‘Look. I thought I could get some justice for my brother. End of.’

  ‘You think she killed Stephan?’

  Amal looked out of the window at the traffic for several seconds. ‘Can I get out now?’

  ​ * * *

  Ollie stared into the depths of a dark eye socket. Eyeless, but that only increased the fear of what she was looking at. One hand was to her mouth, the other tried to hold the beam steady. She took a step back, blinking away the initial shock.

  She made herself breathe. She’d seen dead bodies before. Shit, at the height of her addiction she’d twice woken up in bed next to dead bodies. It was the third time that finally turned her away from drugs. Staggering from a squat one morning and stumbling over a girl she didn’t know. The head had rolled towards her and dead eyes stared from beneath lank, vomit-soaked hair. Run the eyes said, or this is you. Your soul gone.

  She listened for the sounds of anyone running to her rescue. Silence. Had she even screamed? That’s the problem with being a hardened bitch, you no longer scream in your pain, you swallow it. There’s no one to salve it, no one will come running, so you suck it up and move on.

  She panned the beam around and above her. The wooden ceiling was only head height, which was why she wasn’t hurt. She could see six high-backed chairs stacked in pairs. She could use one of those to get back up through the hole she’d created.

  Knowing she was able to get out relaxed her and she turned the beam back to the part of the skull she could see. No way she was going to look, but she had to assume the rest of the body was folded into the case. A killer had known about the solitude of this place and chosen it as their dumping ground. But how long ago was that?

  Ollie pulled the rag of red cloth back over the skull, tested, then stepped onto one of the chairs and heaved herself back through the hole she’d created. She had to get back, tell Jo and then call the police.

  But then she dithered as a sliver of doubt slithered into her mind like a warning. If you report this, Ollie, Donna Small will be all over you in seconds and trying to link this to you. Do you want to bury yourself in yet another layer of shit?

  The wheels of the trolley clattered and rattled on cracked concrete as she wheeled it back to the café. On the way she came to a decision. The body had been there for a while. No one else knew about it. It couldn’t be linked to her.

  Let someone else find and report it.

  Leave it to be someone else’s problem.

  Chapter Thirty

  Donna Small perched on the edge of a desk, her expression grim and frustrated as she looked up at her white board.

  The face of Oleander Soul stared back at her from the middle of the spider’s web. Blond hair in tight curls, brown skin, high perfect cheek bones, wide dark eyes that burned with defiance, yet held that hidden knowledge of how to survive on the streets.

  It was like studying a piece of art and the more she stared, the more she read from the face. There was a lot more to Soul than just the loud mouthed, addicted tart who roamed the streets of the East End. This was an intelligent woman with the hardened determination of a fighter. Perhaps it was time to start seeing her differently.

  She spoke her thoughts. ‘Problem is that in there is something nasty. Somewhere deeper is a beast we’ve never seen.’

  Andy was busy making tea. ‘What’s that, Boss?’

  ‘She’s a killer, Andy. I know it.’ Small took the offered mug of tea and waved it at the board. ‘When have you ever seen a board like that and the person at the centre is not the killer.’

  ‘Never, Boss.’ He put three sugars into his tea and stirred. ‘But we need evidence.’ He tapped the board, one person at a time.

  ‘Billy Jones, natural father. Loads of blood, Soul at the scene, but she was only ten years old. Amount of blood indicates an artery severed. Spatter supports throat cut. Murder weapon probably a knife, but never found and no body recovered from the scene or anywhere else.’ He blew on his tea before he sipped it. Then,

  ‘Boss. I don’t see it. It was twenty years ago. She was ten.’

  ‘What else was in the evidence box you retrieved?’

  ‘A sample of the blood from the floor, load of pictures from the scene. Fingerprints of Soul, Jones and her mother. Statements from neighbours that say nothing.’

  ‘No one else involved at the scene?’

  ‘Report s
ays a neighbour called in the screaming of a little girl. So, no.’

  ‘Don’t believe it. Find out who is still living in the area and interview them again.’

  Small stared at the board. She could feel her frustration growing. There are two easy ways to dispose of a body in circumstances like that; cut it up into small pieces, put it into black bin sacks and do it piecemeal over days or weeks. Or, dig a hole in the back garden and pop the body in. This had all the hallmarks of a domestic.

  Shame there was no garden. ‘I want to interview Alesha Soul.’

  ‘Boss, she’s got a sound alibi and she’s also got early stage demen…’

  ‘Don’t care. And get a new DNA analysis of the blood and run it through every database on the planet. Next.’

  Andy blew on his tea again before sipping. ‘Emmanuel Soul. Stepfather. Disappeared when Oleander was fifteen.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing, Boss. Went to work and didn’t come home. Passport and clothes left at home so not obviously thinking of a runner.’

  ‘Debt? Stress? Other relationships?’ Small knew that every year one hundred thousand people plus disappeared in the UK without trace. Emmanuel fell into that category, but she didn’t want him to.

  Andy added, ‘Background checks and interviews came up with zilch. His DNA profile is still on record, but no hits from over the years from either random recovered bodies or crime.’

  ‘See if we can find those people interviewed. I want to re-interview them and his employer.’ Did this add up to one murder one missing person, or two murders, she wondered.

  Small took a gulp of her tea and raised the mug to Andy, acknowledging a good strong brew. ‘Next.’ Shit this was like a doctor’s surgery.

  ‘Mark Anderson.’

  Small smiled. ‘This is where we’ve got her.’

  Andy made a face. ‘Not necessarily, Boss. Sure, her DNA and prints are all over his clothes, car and the room in the Hoxton. But she admits he was a client and she went there.’

  ‘What about the argument in the street? The knife.’

  ‘I talked to the woman again. Under pressure she’s suddenly saying it was dark. She’s not one hundred on it being a knife.’

  ‘Shit.’ They’d be blown out of the water in a court. ‘But they were arguing.’

  ‘That’s a definite, but Soul said he’d been starting to stalk her.’

  ‘She could be making that up.’

  Small studied a picture of the car. ‘Why was his body dumped in his own car, in her apartment space, hours after they’d had sex at the Hoxton?’

  ‘Forensics have confirmed that Anderson was killed in the back seat of his car. I have to agree with Soul, Boss. It’s not the place I’d leave the car if I’d just killed him.’

  Small sighed at him impatiently because she had to agree. ‘You’re saying that someone’s deliberately trying to frame her?’

  Andy shrugged and watched her down the rest of her tea. ‘Back to basics, Andy. Get me a grunt, a good grunt, to gather in all the CCTV and traffic cams. Trace the movements of the car from her apartment, to the Hoxton and back again. Facials of the occupants and I’ll recommend promotion.’

  Someone tapped on her door. She glanced over her shoulder saw a WPC and called out an impatient, ‘Wait’. Then, ‘How about Anderson came back to continue stalking her, so she went downstairs with a knife, confronts him and killed him there.’

  ‘Back seat, Boss?’

  ‘Where do her type do their best work?’

  Andy smiled at that. ‘Still need a weapon, Boss. But if she went straight back upstairs it will be in the apartment. Warrant?’

  ‘One brick at a time, Andy. Let’s track the car first and now you’ve mentioned the apartment, find out who owns it and who rents it to her.’

  Two more taps. ‘Yes?’

  The WPC put her head round the door and handed Small a picture. She gave Andy a smile that was more than just a smile. ‘Oleander Soul less than three people away from Mark Anderson.’

  Donna Small looked at Andy and back. ‘Shit. They were together at the demo?’

  The WPC hadn’t finished and produced more pictures. ‘DI Thompson would also like a meeting. He’s investigating the death of Mike Marston. And says thanks for the intel on the false name Stockton. No NCA ID was found on his body and the NCA have confirmed he is not one of theirs.’

  Small swore. Yet another brick wall. Yet another loose thread she had to weave into the fabric of this case.

  The WPC added, ‘Good news is, there were a lot of photographs on his mobile.’

  The WPC handed over three printed images. Small shuffled through them, smiled and handed them to Andy. He smiled and spoke to the WPC. ‘Thank you, Jules.’

  Donna Small watched the door close with a smile of her own. Thank you, God. Oleander Soul on Mike Stockton Marston’s mobile.

  Donna Small counted points on her fingers. ‘We have Marston imitating a copper and handing money to Amal. We have Soul living at that same address. We have Marston as a biochemist. Now we have Soul on Marston’s mobile.’

  Andy drained his tea. ‘You want me to get Soul in? Find out if she knew him as Stockton or Marston?. What the relationship was.’

  ‘What the hell is going on here, Andy?’

  ‘Manufacture and sale of drugs, Boss? Marston working with Stephan Khan and Soul the distributor?’

  She shook her head. ‘Too simple. Stephan disappeared six months ago. All the others before that. This goes deeper. This has a twenty-year history, Andy.’

  She threw the pictures to the desk. ‘My gut is telling me we haven’t really started yet.’

  * * *

  Ollie decided to make her way home via George’s apartment. She buzzed from the street on the external intercom, but there was no answer. So, she waited five minutes and let herself in when a woman resident exited.

  George didn’t answer his doorbell. Ollie tried the door and it was locked. She tried knocking, twice, and that brought an elderly man to the door opposite. Grand-dad shirt, braces, baggy trousers and slippers.

  ‘Moved out, love. Two days ago. One hold-all and he was gone. Left me his food and milk.’

  Ollie blinked and swallowed. Were those tears welling in her eyes? He couldn’t have, wouldn’t have, unless it was contract completed and move on.

  The disappointment must have shown in her face because the man added,

  ‘Owe you money as well, did he?’

  Ollie turned. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Two men here this morning. Said they’d come to collect a debt.’ He laughed. ‘The size of them, I’d have done a runner as well.’

  He stepped back to close the door, but Ollie stopped him. ‘How long did he live here?’

  ‘Two months, maybe three, love. Nice chap, always willing to pick up a bit of shopping for me. Always free with his bottle of whiskey.’

  Ollie walked away from George’s apartment block. Everything pointed to him being a transient, like a junkie who sniffs around for what they can scrounge or steal and then moves on.

  One part of her wanted to let the old anger rise, to shout, ‘sod him’, but something was making her cling on. Don’t let this become one of those intense unstable relationships Amanda spoke about.

  Except hey, Ollie, reality check. Isn’t this what you’ve been paid to do – develop the relationship and steal some information. You’ve done the job, end of.

  Go with the obvious, George followed Mark and killed him in the car park, dumped him in the car in your space to frame you. Next night he visits, cool as anything, bearing gifts. That’s how George knew where she lived. And if he’d been seen near her apartment, she was his excuse for being in the area. Opportunist and clever.

  Ollie sucked in a couple of deep breaths of the warm, evening air. She set off down the street, emotions making her unsteady on her feet. She looked around her, but the sights, the sounds didn’t touch her.

  Somehow, her life had been forced into a bubble
. She could see out, see what was happening to her, press her nose and face to the skin, but she couldn’t break through. She couldn’t get out to change it.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Twenty minutes later none of that mattered.

  Ollie stepped into an apartment that had been trashed, thrashed and smashed. As the front door slammed behind her, Lily and her mother shouted from the bathroom.

  She ran to them, frantically pushing chairs out of the way, stepping on cushions and feet crunching on a smashed vase.

  Lily was on Alesha’s lap, arms around her neck, red-eyed, scared. The fear was reflected in her mother’s eyes like dancing firelight.

  Alesha stroked at Lily’s hair. ‘We’re okay, aren’t we, Lils?’

  Ollie was angry, at her mother’s typically stoic attitude and at the fact that someone had invaded her territory and done this. This mattered, whether they were okay or not.

  ‘They told us we mustn’t come out until you arrived home.’

  ‘They?’

  The word came out of Ollie’s mouth harsh and bitter and Alesha winced. Ollie scooped up Lily and held her trembling body close.

  Alesha was defensive. ‘We didn’t let them in. Two men. We came back and they were here. Looking for….’Alesha looked at Lily and frowned. Lily filled in the space in her Gran’s memory.

  ‘A mobile phone. That’s what they kept shouting at us while they broke everything. Said they’d stop if we told them where it was. Grannie said you must have it.’

  Ollie didn’t understand. She touched her back pocket, her mobile was still there and Alesha and Lily didn’t have one.

  ‘They took my iPad.’ More tears in Lily’s eyes.

  Ollie assumed her laptop had been taken as well. She crouched down.

  ‘The good news is we can go out later and buy another iPad. But I can never buy another you.’ God, she thought, you sound like your mother.