The Wages of Sin (A Detective India Kane & AJ Colt Crime Thriller)

by Bo Brennan

  Anyone who has seen Becky or knows of her whereabouts is urged to contact police.

  Chapter 11

  Winchester High Street, Hampshire

  India chewed at the Sellotape, patting it down as PCs Smith and Wesson approached the bus stop at an unhurried pace.

  Paul Smith nudged his partner. “Told you,” he said, smugly pointing at the picture India taped to the shelter. “Pocahontas. I was right.”

  Kate Wesson rolled her eyes.

  “You’ll get a chocolate badge later, Smithy,” India said, handing him and Kate a pile of posters. “I need you to find out if anybody in these shops knows her.”

  Kate Wesson glanced up the high street and got moving.

  Paul Smith glanced at his watch. “It’s twenty past five. Most of these shops shut in ten minutes.”

  Most of these shops shut years ago, India thought, flagging down the approaching bus. “You’d better get a move on then,” she said.

  As Smithy waddled off to the chemist’s, India boarded the bus, poster in hand. Quizzing the driver yielded no results. She hadn’t expected it to. If the 5.22 was the woman’s regular bus – she’d have been on it, not getting abducted five minutes later. But she’d hoped the driver might’ve at least noticed her sitting at the stop on this barren stretch of High Street, with the notorious Preston troublemakers lurking nearby. But apparently not. He was adamant just the two little scrotes were here when he passed through – and they were banned, so he didn’t bother stopping.

  As India stepped back onto the pavement, the lights of the Central Bank went out, and the pre-sunset shadows suddenly seemed ominous.

  “Why here?” she muttered, turning her back to the road and looking around. There was bugger all at this end – a second-rate bank, a couple of boarded-up pubs, and a handful of struggling businesses. Further up, the high street was bustling. Full of swanky restaurants, designer boutiques and a dozen well-lit bus stops with plenty of well-heeled people queuing at them – the exact reason the Preston boys weren’t welcome. Courtesy of their Anti-Social Behaviour Orders, this was as close to the bright lights and shiny objects as their sticky little fingers could get.

  She stuck her arm out, waving frantically as the 5.32 came hurtling down the street showing no signs of stopping. The driver saw her at the last minute and swerved to the kerb. With a hydraulic ‘whoosh’ the bus doors swung open. “Sorry, love. Didn’t see you there,” the driver said as she stepped on board.

  India looked to the digital display above his head showing the number 52, and then dropped her eyes to his – wondering if he said that when he mowed down the cyclist on Monday morning.

  “I don’t do mornings,” he snapped, reading her mind. “You want a ticket, or not, love?”

  “Not.” India held up the poster and her warrant card. “I want to know if you recognise this woman.”

  The driver sighed and took the poster from her hand. “Yeah, I know her. She’s a regular, always here . . . well, except yesterday. She wasn’t here then.”

  “Where does she get off?” India asked pulling the map from her bag and thrusting it into his hands. “Show me.”

  He did, and she marked it with her pencil. “Always the same stop?”

  “Yeah. She crosses the road and hangs a left. Goes up here somewhere,” he said, indicating a small tangle of residential streets.

  “Any idea where she comes from?”

  “Nope,” the driver said, making a pointed display of looking at his watch. “But if you sit down, I’ll take you to where she goes.”

  India glanced at the motley crew of sardine-packed passengers, straining to hear what was holding them up. She’d had better offers. Especially tonight.

  “Fer Christ’s sake,” the driver muttered, as Kate Wesson popped her head through the doors. “Is this gonna take much longer? I’m running to a tight schedule here.”

  “We’ve got something,” Kate said, beckoning her off.

  India stepped from the bus and raised a hand to the driver, preventing the closure of the doors. “Where can I find you if I need to speak to you again?”

  “Here,” he said, ramming the bus into gear. “I start at four and finish at eleven.” With a warning blast of the horn, he joined the moving traffic.

  “The newsagent on the corner recognised her,” Kate said over the din. “Buys a paper every morning.”

  They walked across the street to where a wizened old man in shirtsleeves and a turban scrubbed graffiti from his shopfront as PC Smith looked on. “This is Mr Choudry,” Smithy said, pocketing his notebook. “Third time this month. Doesn’t want to make a complaint.”

  India stared at the swastika and racist slogans daubed across his windows. “English isn’t their forte,” she said, plunging her hands into the soapy bucket for a spare brush. “The dipshits can’t even spell.”

  Mr Choudry smiled at her. “Geography isn’t either. I’m from India, not Pakistan. TSTL as my grandson would say. Too Stupid To Live.”

  India huffed a chuckle, talking as they scrubbed. “You know our missing lady, Mr Choudry?”

  “Comes every morning, seven-thirty for her paper,” he said. “Can set your watch by her.”

  “Every morning?” India said. “Weekends included?”

  “Every morning. Weekends included,” he repeated. “Except Sunday. Never Sunday.”

  Works a six-day week, India thought. “And did she come in this morning?”

  “No, no, no,” he said, waving a gnarled finger. “Bus came, lady not on it. This is very unusual.”

  “But she definitely came in yesterday morning?”

  “Definitely,” Mr Choudry said.

  Then she definitely is missing, India thought. “Do you know her name, or where she works? Does she wear any sort of uniform?”

  Mr Choudry solemnly shook his head. “Never speaks. Only smiles. Lovely smile,” he added wistfully. “Always has right money.” He jingled the shrapnel in his pockets. “Change, you know.”

  India put her back into eradicating the swastika, thinking as she scrubbed. The standardised timings meant Pocahontas probably started work at eight and finished at five. If she wasn’t at the bus stop on the other side of the street at 5.22, but was at 5.27, then give or take a few minutes to get her end of day shit together, and that would put her workplace around twenty-five minutes away on foot. Could still be a hell of a distance, depending on how fast she walked.

  “Is she spritely, Mr Choudry? Fit and able-bodied?”

  “Spritelier than me.” He stood back, admiring their joint endeavour. All traces of hatred gone. “Not as spritely as you.”

  Job done, India dropped the scrubbing brush into the bucket. “How long has she been coming in for her morning paper?”

  Mr Choudry pursed his lips together and rocked his head from side to side, using the ready reckoner implanted in his shopkeeper’s brain. “Three years,” he said confidently.

  India raised a brow. Then she shouldn’t be too hard to identify at all.

  Gunwharf Quays, Portsmouth.

  Gray Davies walked into the vast wine bar and looked around. The minimalistic chrome furniture looked uncomfortable and uninviting with so few bodies about.

  A lone blonde, flashing a smooth stretch of tanned thigh in tailored shorts, perched on a stool at one of the tall tables near the window. A gaggle of loud suits, talking telephone number deals in loud voices, occupied the far corner, making eyes at the blonde.

  He hated pretentious places like this, Gunwharf was full of them. He was late. If he was in the right place she’d be here already. He turned and headed for the door, wishing she’d picked one of the bland chain pubs instead of the identikit wine bars. At least jeans and a biker jacket wouldn’t look so out of place there.

  “Gray,” the blonde called, slipping from the stool with a wave.

  He froze, staring at her. Hadn’t recognised her from behind, almost didn’t recognise her when she was standing face to face two feet away. She’
d changed her hair. Changed . . . well, everything. The shorts were short, the heels high, the jacket low-cut and clingy.

  “Hi,” he said, struggling to maintain eye contact in the face of extreme provocation. “You changed your hair.”

  “Burnished blonde.” Cara smiled, provocatively tousling what could only be extensions around her fingers. She’d changed her teeth as well. “Do you like it?”

  “Looks good,” he said, feeling awkward, underdressed, and for the second time today completely outnumbered – this time by the jeering suits in the corner, now staring his way.

  She frowned at the helmet, hanging from his hand. “Oh, you bought yourself a motorbike.”

  Gray raised a shoulder, knew how much she hated them. “Yeah, well, I found myself single didn’t I?” he said, using it to sting, and too ashamed to admit he’d sold the car to pay off some of the debts she’d left him with.

  “I know places like this aren’t really your style,” she said, linking her arm through his and guiding him towards the door. “We can get a cab somewhere else if you want.”

  “Here’s fine,” he said, easing his arm free of hers. “But if you wanna get out of here, I’ve got a spare helmet on the bike.”

  She looked down at her high heels and shorts combo and laughed. “Not really dressed for it, am I?”

  “Oh, I dunno. You got on the back in a bikini in Lanzarote.”

  They regarded each other momentarily. That had been a great holiday. Their first. When they were still doe-eyed for each other and at it like rabbits. They’d hired a scooter and spent a carefree fortnight bombing around the island. By the time they left, there wasn’t a stretch of beach where they hadn’t made love.

  The barman unceremoniously broke the moment.

  “Fancy sharing a bottle of rosé for old times’ sake?” she said seductively.

  “I can’t, I’m on call,” he said. “Get whatever you want; I’ll just have a coke.”

  She pouted and looked hurt as she picked her wine. “I thought tonight was your night off.”

  “It is,” he said, unzipping his jacket and pulling his wallet from the inside pocket. “But I’m on call. Flu has wiped out half the station.”

  And he needed the bloody money, weddings were expensive. Usually paid for by a husband and wife planning the rest of their lives together, not a single man who’d never even clapped eyes on the twelve hundred quid dress.

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a long way from Winchester if you get a shout.”

  Gray shrugged. “Beauty of a bike.”

  “Is that where she lives?”

  Gray frowned as he handed the barman a twenty. “Who?”

  She tilted her head and pointed a bright red talon at the flower petals at his feet. “Whoever you bought those for.”

  “I swung by the hospital on the way here,” he murmured, absently shaking the remaining petals loose of his jacket where he’d carried Shayla’s flowers.

  “Was it the girl from under the bus?” she asked. “How is she?”

  “Bloody lucky, apparently.” Gray swigged from his coke. “Broke her arm and a couple of ribs, but she’ll be fine.”

  Cara smiled as she led him to a table by the window. “What hospital is she in?”

  “Royal South Hants,” he said, taking a seat opposite her. “They reckon she’ll be home for the weekend.”

  “Is she local?”

  “No idea,” Gray said.

  She sipped her wine and gazed absently out of the window, plunging them into awkward silence.

  Some things never changed. Her general disinterest in his work was one of them. Just as he was about to comment on the weather, she placed her hand over his. “I’m sorry, Gray. Really I am.”

  He pulled his hand away, recoiling from her touch. “Why’d you do it, Cara?”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” she said, nonchalantly flicking her extensions over her shoulder.

  Gritting his teeth, Gray leaned across the table. “Of course you had a choice. No one forced you into bed with another bloke on the fucking hen night.”

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, staring out of the window. “For everything.”

  He sipped his coke, wetting his parched mouth and steadying his voice before speaking again. “You really hurt me, you know.”

  She turned back to face him, and tentatively reached for his hand once more. “I still love you, Gray.”

  This time, he made no attempt to pull away. He’d longed to hear those words so many times lately. He stared down at the hand covering his, the ring he’d spent a month’s wages on still glittered on her finger.

  “Say something.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know what to say, Caz.”

  “You used to call me that all the time,” she said, trailing her red painted nails across his fingers. “Why don’t you take a proper night off, come over for dinner so we can talk properly?”

  He was back on days tomorrow, had a full night off too. Planned to go fishing, catch himself some dinner, chill out and catch up on his sleep. It would be the first proper night off he’d taken in seventeen days – no overtime, no covering, no moonlighting – and he had absolutely no idea when the next would be. But tomorrow was too soon, he didn’t want to appear desperate.

  He bit his lip and raised a shoulder. “Maybe,” he said as cool and non-committal as he could muster.

  She entwined her fingers through his and smiled, revealing the deep dimples in her cheeks that he’d fallen in love with. Cool went out the window and he found himself grinning back at her like a schoolboy with a crush. “How’s tomorrow night sound?”

  “Perfect,” she purred.

  In a Hollywood movie, it would have been the perfect moment to lock lips, and he wanted to, he really did. But this was a poncey bar in Portsmouth, and he was being saved from himself by the on-call buzzer vibrating in his pocket. “I’m sorry, I gotta go,” he said.

  She passed him his motorcycle helmet. “What time are you coming over for dinner tomorrow?”

  He leant in and kissed her cheek. “I’ll call you.”

  Chapter 12

  Wednesday, 7th March

  Bar End, Winchester, Hampshire

  India screeched to a halt behind the police vehicle blocking the rural road. Beyond them, the brilliant blue lights of a fire engine and ambulance lit up the pre-dawn darkness. She climbed from her car and slammed the door, pissed that it was barely 4am and Colt was alone in her bed, her space. The thought unnerved her, but less than it should, and that’s what unnerved her most. Thank God he was in court all day and wouldn’t have time to poke around before he buggered off.

  “You can’t park there,” a uniform barked, emerging from the trees with a flashlight in his hand. “We’re dealing with a major incident.”

  “DC Kane,” she said, holding out her warrant card. “Who else is here?”

  “Apart from the medical examiner, you’re the first,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Bastard. Sangrin had given her the impression he was already here when he phoned. She’d driven flat-out for miles. He only lived around the bloody corner. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  The uniform grimaced. With a puff of his cheeks he directed his flashlight at the ground and gingerly led her down the steep bank to the water’s edge where a crime scene cordon was already in place.

  “The ME’s gone for a cup of tea and a bacon butty in the truck stop up the road,” he mumbled. “Asked me to call him when you arrived. Presumption of life extinct has been made.”

  India frowned. “He examined the body without us? Who else has entered the cordon?” She craned her neck at the paramedics and firemen standing around on the narrow rural road above, furious at the possibility the crime scene could’ve been compromised.

  The uniform looked queasy. “No one, not even the doc,” he said, speaking through the hand clamped over his nose and mouth. “She’s definitely dead; don’t need no PhD
to know that. There’s some seriously sick bastards out there.”

  India wrinkled her nose. The repugnant smell was one she’d encountered before and would never forget. When the uniform started retching, she gathered he wouldn’t either. “Sod off somewhere else if you’re gonna spew,” she said, snatching the torch from his hand.

  She shook her head as he scurried up the bank like a water rat on steroids.

  Alone in the dark, she skirted the cordon with the flashlight, finding the extent of the crime scene. It was massive, and then she saw why. Condoms littered the riverbank. Everywhere the torch shone revealed more. With a frown, she systematically swept the beam from left to right, seeking the corpse within.

  As the light found its target, all the air left India’s body in a sudden, unexpected rush. She dropped the torch and reflexively stumbled backwards, jumping as her body met something warm and solid.

  “Everything looks worse in the dark,” Gray said, stooping to pick up the torch.

  India shrugged. “Slipped in the mud.”

  Gray yawned as he returned the light to her unsteady hand. “Sure you did.”

  “What’re you doing on the night shift?” India flashed the light his way. “I thought you had a date.”

  Gray screwed up his face and ducked the fierce glare. “It wasn’t a date, and I was on call.”

  India wanted to probe, ask him how it went. Ask if she’d told him. Ask if he was okay. Instead, she simply said, “You look tired.”

  “That’s because some little twat spent the night torching all the speed cameras on the ring road,” he said. “Only got three hours’ kip before this came in.”

  India lifted her chin. Every cloud had a silver lining. She’d driven around the ring road like it was Brand’s Hatch this morning. “Who called it?”

  “Dog walker, apparently. Phoned it in as a heath fire.” Gray held out his hand and helped her back up the slippery bank to the road. “He didn’t leave his name, didn’t stick around either.”

  India tutted as she brushed mud from her trousers. “What sort of idiot walks their dog this time of the morning?” she grumbled. “It’s dark, dirty, and dangerous as fuck down there.”