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

by Bo Brennan

  Gray dunked his biscuit in his tea, watching as an oil slick of chocolate appeared on the surface. “The people around me won’t be very happy about it,” he murmured.

  Mrs Reynolds shrugged. “They’ll get over it.”

  He gave her a grateful smile. Mrs Reynolds tilted her head, glancing under the table as she nibbled her biscuit, and then lifted her gaze to meet his. “I saw you on the news,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. “You got a good face to match. She’s a lucky girl.”

  Chapter 14

  The Old Bailey, London

  Colt paced the tight confines of the waiting room, wondering what the bloody hell they were doing in there. If the judge went into lunch recess, he probably wouldn’t get called to the stand until tomorrow. Usually he gave his evidence first, and then got the immeasurable pleasure of sitting and watching the defendants squirm for the rest of the trial.

  No such pleasure was forthcoming this time. Political and religious interference meant seasoned prosecutor Michael Moore had to present the case more tactically than usual – putting the victims on the stand first was one such tactic. It was frustrating. Maggie had spent the last fortnight being his eyes and ears in the courtroom, leaving him feeling like he was both missing a limb, and out on one.

  When the door swung open and the crown prosecutor appeared, Colt headed straight for him, tapping the face of his watch. “About bloody time, I was just about to . . .”

  “Take a seat, Chief Inspector,” Commander Hussein barked, filing in behind him and holding the door open for a stony-faced Maggie bringing up the rear.

  Colt remained standing, his eyes darting between the three of them. Maggie was shaking her head, his boss couldn’t look him in the eye, and the usually supremely confident Michael Moore looked decidedly dishevelled. “What’s going on?”

  Michael drew a deep breath and glanced sideways at the commander. “Kylie Jones kicked off in the witness box,” he said. “And her father kicked off in the gallery. They both had to be restrained and physically removed from the courtroom. The judge is furious. Father and daughter are both cooling off in the cells.”

  Colt ran his tongue over his teeth and pointed at the commander, not as discreet as the prosecutor as to where the blame for this circus laid. “I warned you not to put her on the stand,” he said. “We all did.”

  The commander puffed his chest. “You’ve built a case based on warped psychology,” he snapped. “And now the jury have seen that in action first-hand.”

  “And gone to lunch,” Michael curtly said. “The judge has adjourned for two hours.”

  Colt clenched his jaw and thrust his hands in his pockets. Another day wasted wading through bullshit. “I might as well piss off back to work then.”

  “No, you need to stick around,” Michael said, fanning his palms to calm the mood. “I’m done with Kylie Jones, she’s out of here. We need to mitigate our losses and recover some ground. I’m putting you on the stand as soon as we reconvene. I need you on top form, Colt. Go somewhere nice, have a spot of lunch, relax for a bit. We’ll meet back here in an hour.”

  “Lunch sounds like a fine idea.” Hussein patted his pot belly and smiled expectantly at Maggie. “There’s a lovely little bistro around the corner that I’ve been meaning to check out for some time.”

  “You do that,” Colt said, striding for the door with Maggie in hot pursuit. “We’ll be sure to give it a wide berth.”

  “Kylie did us no favours in there,” Maggie said, picking at her food. “Told the court she’s planning on converting to Islam and marrying him as soon as she turns sixteen. Wants his babies and everything.”

  “She’ll have aged out by then. Or be dead.” Colt shook his head in despair and pushed his plate away, his appetite obliterated. “Her father went off on one about Becky Adams last night. I don’t know, Mags, maybe we’re doing the wrong thing by distancing ourselves from that investigation. Do you think it might help if we spoke to Kylie about what happened to Becky?”

  “I doubt it,” Maggie said, throwing her crumpled napkin down on her plate. “Sounds like she’s getting enough preaching at home. Besides, Bashir’s done a right brainwashing job on her. She was even blowing him kisses from the witness box. It was when he blew one back that Nigel lost it.”

  “I’m not fucking surprised.” Colt rubbed at his furrowed brow as the pressure inside his skull mounted. “Everything turns to shit when Hussein’s anywhere near it.”

  “You had no chance of keeping him away from this one,” Maggie said. “It’s a political hot potato and he’s one of the country’s highest ranking Muslim officers.”

  “He’s an interfering twat.” Colt leaned back in his chair and beckoned the waiter for the bill. “We warned him Kylie Jones had been so badly damaged she couldn’t even comprehend that she’d been abused by these men. For Christ’s sake, we showed him the kid’s recorded interviews so he could see how hostile she was himself, and he still insisted the CPS put her on the stand. He’s a fucking idiot, Mags, that’s what he is.”

  “Don’t let it get to you. Use it to your advantage,” Maggie said. “You’re up next, and Michael’s putting the psychologist on the stand straight after you. By the time you’ve both given evidence the jury will have a better understanding of what actually happened today. You can pull it back, boss, I know you can.”

  Colt gave a half smile at the vote of confidence, and wished to God he felt the same.

  Chapter 15

  Three Years Previously

  The Daily Herald

  Friday, 13th March

  BODY FOUND IN HUNT FOR MISSING TEEN

  By Ryan Reynolds, Crime Correspondent

  POLICE searching for missing Haringey teenager Becky Adams have found a body.

  The heavily pregnant 16-year-old was last seen on CCTV exiting Richmond Station at 1330hrs on Friday, 6th March.

  This morning officers were alerted to a body in the Thames near St Helena Pier, south of where Becky was last seen.

  Police divers entered the water and recovered the body of a young woman just before midday. Officers remain at the scene.

  While police have not confirmed the body is that of the missing teenager, officers have reportedly called off all other search efforts for Becky.

  Anyone who has any information is urged to contact police.

  Chapter 16

  Royal South Hants Hospital, Winchester

  Bored of DNA test results and families screeching at one another, Shayla Begum lifted the remote control and flicked through the channels with fat swollen fingers. The hospital physio recommended she use her broken arm as much as possible, but it seemed to weigh a ton.

  On screen, a group of middle-aged women, oozing self-confidence, discussed their favourite sexual positions under the thinly veiled guise of fertility and successful pregnancy advice. She blushed at their candid turns of phrase and swiftly switched the channel once more.

  Exhausted, she settled back to watch the afternoon news, bringing the heavy plaster cast to rest on the pillow beside her.

  Headlining was the discovery of a body near Winchester. The reporter said body parts were still being looked for. Her heart skipped a beat as Detective Sergeant Sangrin spoke briefly to the camera. “We can’t release any details at this time, but urge anybody who may have any information to come forward.”

  Shayla breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully a murder would keep him busy enough to forget about her for a while.

  Guilt flooded her veins. Once she’d been so sensitive, hearing news like that would have reduced her to tears. Thoughts of that dead stranger’s family, struggling to contain their grief, would have consumed her. How had her life come to this – a life stripped bare to the most basic of human survival instincts, even someone else’s loss could be so selfishly construed as her gain?

  Shayla closed her eyes. She knew how it had come to this. It was out of her hands, out of her control. All she needed to think about was staying alive.

&nbs
p; In other news, Winchester had been brought to a standstill by a loud and lively protest by students and teachers against tuition fee rises. Good for them, she thought, fixing her gaze on the screen, thankful for the lighter tone of the story. Money shouldn’t be a barrier to education. Education was the path to accomplishing hopes and dreams. She’d been fortunate enough to receive a good education. Of course, she didn’t know then that all her hard work would be for nothing. That the carefree hopes and dreams of her youth would never be accomplished, just lie tattered and torn in the ruins of her past.

  Her heart twisted. There were reminders everywhere, every news story a memory of who she used to be . . . and longed to be.

  Shayla swallowed hard. She needed to forget about the past and concentrate on today, or as Naz would frequently say: ‘Learn from the past, dream about the future, but live purposefully in the present.’

  Naz! Shayla drew a sharp intake of breath, her splintered ribs screaming disapprovingly as Naz’s face filled the screen. Frantically fumbling with the buttons on the remote control, she turned the volume up as high as it would go.

  She’d been abducted. Straight off the street where she caught the bus home. That’s why she hadn’t come. The police were looking for a white van.

  Shayla’s heart pummelled her rib cage, and bile rose in her throat as her stomach lurched.

  Oh God, the body. It was her. She really was dead this time. Oh God, oh God, oh God. DS Sangrin wasn’t as stupid as he looked. The police knew they were connected. Shayla had said nothing to them, nothing at all. But they’d still found her. Still killed her. Oh God, she’d led them straight to her. She drew shallow, steadying breaths, fending off the nausea as her mouth filled with saliva, and her eyes filled with tears.

  Think purposefully in the present.

  She needed to get out of here. It was only a matter of time before they came back for her.

  In a state of abject panic, she swung her legs from the bed, her head swimming as she searched frantically for her clothes. Spying a hospital carrier bag in the bedside locker, she tugged it free and emptied the filthy, shredded rags onto the floor, salvaging her coat and shoes.

  Think purposefully in the present – Naz’s voice echoed in her head like a mantra.

  Her ruined rucksack lay in the back of the locker. Work clothes were in there.

  As she clumsily dressed, her mind began to clear.

  If they took her from the bus stop, they knew where she worked. They wouldn’t find Shayla’s address there though, Naz had covered that. And they wouldn’t find it through the hospital either, Shayla had taken care of that part herself. But they would find where she lived eventually. She couldn’t go anywhere near work, but, for now at least, she could still go home and collect her things.

  Shayla wiped away her tears. She could do this. She had to. This was the nightmare scenario Naz prepared her for, drummed into her for months. Now she knew for sure it was real – the first thing she needed to do was find the one person alive who could help her.

  “Closer, DCI Firman, closer.” Deep in the bowels of the hospital, Dr Fisher turned the body on the steel mortuary table. “You see that pattern of lividity on the back of the thighs?” he said. “That’s where her calves were pressing at the point of death. Tell Sergeant Sangrin this woman was kneeling when she died, not laying spread-eagled on a river bank in Bar End.”

  Green around the gills, Firman stepped back. He got the point. They both did. “I’m sure it’ll be in your report.”

  As sure as India was that Firman’s boot would be in Sangrin’s arse later. She made a mental note never to question Freaky Fisher at a scene, and run the risk of having her nose rubbed in it. Or worse still, her boss’s. Second hand arse kickings were always more painful.

  “Contusions around the remaining wrist indicate she was bound thus . . .” Dr Fisher theatrically threw his arms out crucifixion style and dropped to his knees.

  “Time of death?” Firman said.

  Dr Fisher shook his head. “Low core temp, cold night, burns. No chance.”

  “Cause of death?” Firman ventured.

  “Oh, decapitation certainly,” he enthused, springing to his feet far too athletically for a man of his advanced years.

  India winced. Whoever this woman was, someone had made damned sure she’d suffered. “She was still drawing breath when her head was chopped off?”

  “Indeed she was,” Freaky Fisher mused. “Head first, hand and foot last. Used a nice sharp, flat blade too,” he said, peering at the neck over his half-moon spectacles. “One single blow, no jaggedly sawing or hacking motions, straight through C6 and the wonderful vertebra prominens,” he said, slicing the air horizontally with a flat palm. “Machete I’d say.”

  India pointed to the woman’s vagina, or at least to the space between her legs where it should have been. “What about sexual assault? Is there anything in there?”

  “No foreign objects that I can see, and nothing’s showing on x-ray. There is evidence of recent sexual activity, both vaginal and anal. Non-traumatic. But we’ll complete a rape kit and collect swabs as standard.” He smiled, pushing his glasses up his nose a fraction. “This isn’t what you think, detectives,” he said, beckoning them forward.

  Firman moved on leaden legs.

  India didn’t hesitate, the gruesomeness of the genital injury actually made her want to take a closer look. “If that’s not a sex crime, what the hell is it?”

  “This, my dear, is a surgically deinfibulated type three circumcision,” Dr Fisher said. “Judging by the scar tissue, I’d estimate it was performed within the last four to eight months. There are only a handful of clinics in the entire country capable of performing this procedure.”

  “You mean she chose to have that done?” India said, frowning in horror. “It’s hardly a genital piercing. How the hell is that even legal?”

  “Well, she probably chose to have the deinfibulation, or surgical reversal, done. There’s no evidence of childbirth and the opening cut is the work of a skilled scalpel. That part is legal.” He let out a hefty sigh and removed his glasses. “But the rest, the mutilation, she wouldn’t have had a choice. The procedure would have been performed when she was young, probably around puberty. If she was born here, she would have been removed from school and taken back to her family’s country of origin. They would have sliced off the clitoris, minor and major labia, tugged whatever flesh was left back together, and stitched it straight down the middle. This young woman spent the best years of her life menstruating and urinating through the same very tiny hole. There are rumoured to be practitioners in this country, but if she’s a UK citizen it doesn’t matter where it’s performed – it’s downright illegal.”

  “The ultimate sex crime,” Firman muttered.

  India was gobsmacked. All she could manage in response was a whispered, “But . . .why?”

  “You’re asking the wrong man about that,” Dr Fisher said. “I’m a man of science. This is religious hocus-pocus.” He slipped his glasses back onto his nose. “I haven’t seen many of these during my career, but it’s certainly more skilled than the others I’ve witnessed. See here, detective,” he ran a gloved finger along both sides of the alien genitalia, “her family must be well off because she was closed neatly with stitching, as opposed to tacked together with thorns.”

  “Thorns?” India gasped, the barbarity of the strange procedure growing by the second.

  “Uh-huh,” he murmured, deep in thought. “In those cases, the mutilation is usually carried out with crude medical instruments too, like a rusty razor . . . or even a stone. But always without anaesthetic.”

  They stood over her relentlessly mutilated body in complete silence for what seemed like an eternity.

  Dr Fisher shook himself and strolled to his work station. “Anyway,” he chirped, holding her x-rays up to the light. “She has long healed fractures to both arms and legs, consistent with being forcibly held down while the genital mutilation occurred.
” India felt a shiver dance along her spine as her flesh goose-bumped.

  “I’d estimate the fractures at perhaps twenty years old.” He tossed his head from side to side, pondering. “Best guess, your victim is between twenty-five and thirty-five years of age, give or take a couple of years.”

  “Birthmarks, tattoos, any other identifiers or injuries?” Firman asked.

  “Oddly, no. Other than the obvious injuries of course, and they won’t be healing anytime soon.” He let out an amused chuckle and India’s goosed flesh began to crawl. “She displays none of the usual marital abuse signs I’d expect in a cadaver presenting like this.”

  Firman frowned. “Marital abuse?”

  “She was sexually active, Chief Inspector. Therefore, I can say with a relative amount of certainty that she has, or did have a husband.”

  India scratched her head. “No disrespect, Doc, but I’m sexually active and I don’t have a husband.”

  He looked at her over the top of his glasses. “But you, detective, don’t have a type three deinfibulated genital mutilation, unless of course, you’d like to enlighten me otherwise.”

  India ignored him. “What’s the connection between mutilation and marriage?”

  “Cultures that practice FGM have ingrained ideals about women and their behaviour. A ‘cut’ woman is a prerequisite for marriage in most of them.”

  “Which cultures?” India said. “That could help us determine who she is and where she’s from.”

  “This horror reached our shores courtesy of immigration. It’s most prevalent in Africa, Asia, and the Middle East, and is predominantly seen in Muslim cultures, but Christianity isn’t exempt.”

  “Pocahontas,” Firman said.

  “But she’s most likely to be Muslim?” India said, confident knowing her religious persuasion would make identifying her easier.