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

by Bo Brennan

  Shit. Sleep was the last thing he wanted. He shook his head and shuffled forwards on the luxurious couch, distancing himself from peaceful slumber as he sought sensory stimulation.

  It took him a few seconds to negotiate the small, sophisticated remote control before the newsreader appeared in razor sharp high-definition, twice the size and with a few more wrinkles than she appeared on his own television screen at home. Well, how she used to look before the sodding thing went on the blink.

  He was in no hurry to replace it – the only time he was at home lately was spent sleeping. He’d rediscovered his music collection and the radio. Heard a couple of tracks that India used to make him dance to, and found himself actually missing those nights on occasion. On second thoughts, the sooner he got the telly fixed the better.

  “Shit,” he murmured, as the news reel showed Colt storming away from the Old Bailey, and the ensuing riots on the streets. Twelve people were in hospital and hundreds more arrested.

  The screen cut to a police sketch of a face he knew well, and his heart skipped a beat. He fumbled with the volume controls, leaning forward in his seat as he pulled his phone from his back pocket.

  India answered her mobile on the first ring. “Can I call you back? Shit-Fer-Brains is loitering.”

  Gray raised a brow, surprised she was still in the office at this time of night. “Put him on. He’ll be interested in this too.”

  “What, like invite him into my space? I don’t think so. What’s up?”

  Gray chuckled. “I just saw the news. Your abducted woman – she’s in the hospital.”

  “What?” she said flatly.

  “The picture on the news –”

  “Yeah, yeah, Pocahontas. What d’you mean she’s in the hospital?”

  Gray frowned. “Exactly that. She’s in the Royal South Hants.”

  “She can’t be.”

  “She is. I spent four hours under a bus with her on Monday.”

  There was a long silence on the end of the line. “It can’t be her.”

  “It’s definitely her,” he said. “She wasn’t wearing the wig on Monday, but that sketch on the news is definitely of Shayla Begum.”

  “What the fuck,” she murmured. “I’ve got two witnesses who reckon she got snatched from the bus stop at the murky end of the high street on Monday night.”

  Gray fell back against the couch raking his fingers through his hair, feeling as confused as India sounded. “Then someone’s either taking the piss or there’s two of her. But that picture is of Shayla Begum, India, and she’s in the hospital. Ward E4. I visited her yesterday. So did Shit-Fer-Brains, actually. If you don’t believe me, ask him.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” she spat. “I don’t know who’s worse – him or the fucking stoners. You I do believe.”

  Gray was glad to hear it. He stared at the full bottle of wine and two empty glasses on the coffee table in front of him. “What are you still doing there, anyway? I thought you’d be with Colt.”

  “Why, what’s up with Colt?”

  “Wow.” Gray’s eyes lifted to the bathroom door as Cara emerged. She’d freshened up all right, into a white silk robe fastened loosely at the waist. The fabric clung to every smooth-skinned curve promised underneath.

  “You didn’t get to see this,” she whispered, leaning seductively against the door frame as the robe fell open. “Bridal underwear.”

  His mouth gaped at the white lace basque and suspenders on show. And his very first thought was Dodgy Dave.

  “Gray, you still there?” India’s voice brought his attention back to the phone.

  He swallowed hard and diverted his gaze. “Yeah. I’m on my way. Meet you at the Royal South Hants.”

  He ended the call and sprang to his feet, hastily grabbing his jacket and bike helmet. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I have to go.”

  “You can’t go,” she said throwing her arms around his neck. “Look at me, Gray. You can’t leave now!”

  “I’m really sorry,” he said, wriggling free of her embrace and almost sprinting for the door. “It’s an emergency, Caz. I’ll call you.”

  Hampshire CID, Winchester

  “I don’t need to go to the hospital. If she’s not missing, there isn’t any point. Besides, she’s Shit-Fer-Brains case. Gray, are you listening to me? Gray?” India growled when she realised he’d already hung up. Standing, she ripped the Pocahontas sketch from the wall, Sangrin firmly in her sights. “Oi,” she shouted. “This woman look familiar to you at all?”

  “Yes.” Sangrin set his jaw. “She was missing, now she’s dead.”

  India tore away the paper around the woman’s head, letting the long black printed tresses fall around her feet. “How about now? She remind you of your mangled bus woman, maybe?”

  His eyes lit up like a fruit machine paying out a sizeable jackpot. “Yeah, that’s her. Shayla Begum. I interviewed her at the Royal South Hants yesterday.”

  “Right,” India said, glaring at him. “So she hasn’t been abducted then. And if she’s in the bloody hospital she can’t be the murder victim either, can she?”

  “Oh fuck,” Sangrin muttered, rubbing at his brow. “But the Preston boys –”

  “Are piss takers,” India spat through gritted teeth, annoyed with herself for giving them a chance in the first place. She took a deep breath and planted her hands on her hips. “I want a drugs unit for tomorrow. Slack Alice is growing in her loft. There’s skunk all over that fucking estate.”

  Sangrin frowned. “Why didn’t you mention this before? It’s nearly seven o’clock. You’ve got no chance of pulling together a pre-dawn raid at this hour.”

  “They’re stoners,” India said. “They don’t get up before midday.”

  “They got up earlier than you did,” Sangrin snapped. “They’ve had you chasing your own arse. Have you chased up the phone company for the dog walker’s details yet?”

  India gave a subdued nod. “Could take up to a week.”

  “Fuck it.” Sangrin smacked the side of the filing cabinet. “There’s more spunk than water on that riverbank. Forensics have got more DNA profiles than the fucking national database. They’re still collecting condoms now.”

  “She didn’t die there,” India said. “This isn’t a sex crime. I doubt the condoms have anything to do with the case.”

  “Yeah, got that. Firman made it pretty damned clear when he got back from the PM.” Sangrin screwed up the remainder of the picture and threw it across the office. “We’ve got evidence coming out of our ears and fuck all without a face.”

  India chewed at her cheek. “The shopkeeper recognised her. Said she comes by bus.”

  “That old duffer Choudry? He’s 103. Smith and Wesson are doing additional patrols because they’re ‘worried about him’.”

  They should be, India thought. “Pocahontas definitely bought her paper there at 7.30 on Monday morning,” she said. “Didn’t turn up Tuesday.”

  “She won’t will she. She was in the bloody hospital.” Sangrin sighed and shook his head. “I was relying on her being the vic. I mean, it’s not much of a jump, is it? An Asian abducted by a white van and an Asian dumped by a white van. The Preston piss takers have led us a right merry-go-round with that picture.”

  India stared at the leader board. There might well be a million white vans in the county, but this wasn’t Pakistan, this was affluent, civilized Hampshire, genital mutilations and honour killings were not an everyday occurrence. Neither were attempted murders. Or attempted honour killings. She cringed at what she was about to say. “Was there a white van involved in the Shayla Begum case?”

  “Yes. Yes, there was!” Sangrin almost ran to retrieve the file and dump it on her desk. “It deliberately mounted the pavement to take her out. Shit loads of witnesses as well. And she’s Asian. Probably got funny bits too,” he added with a grimace, gesturing to his groin.

  Really? India thought. You don’t say. As Sangrin busied himself, convincing the Drug Squad of the mer
its of a midday raid, India flicked through the attempted murder file. As usual, Sergeant Trevor Marshall from the Traffic Division had been meticulous in his investigation of the accident scene. Of course, it helped that the CCTV worked at that end of the bloody city. And it had all been pulled, viewed, and scrutinised. Every white van had been ANPR checked, and the offending vehicle pinpointed – a white Mercedes Sprinter. The plates came back as false. Post-accident, it had been tracked around the ring road, and then vanished. The conclusion of Textbook Trev was that the driver pulled up and switched plates again, him and his white van fading into the traffic. India was inclined to agree.

  “You’re on,” Sangrin said, hanging up her desk phone. “They’ll meet you there.”

  “Good. What did Shayla Begum say when you interviewed her?” she asked, thumbing through a ton of witness statements, looking for hers. “She have any idea who the driver was?”

  Sangrin let out a heavy sigh. “She wasn’t really in any position to speak to me yesterday. She’s all yours if you want it.”

  India’s eyes narrowed. Sangrin never did anything that didn’t benefit him. And he certainly never did anything that benefited her. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

  He shrugged and reached for the file. “Fine. If you don’t want it, I’ll keep it. I was just trying to help you out. Let’s face it, darlin’, you kinda need all the help you can get at the moment,” he said, gesturing to the mess surrounding her name on the board.

  India defensively tugged the file towards her. “I’ll take it.”

  Trev had done so much work it should be a simple dot to dot exercise. Get this Shayla’s statement and join them up. She looked at her watch. Courtesy of Gray, that statement was due to be taken now.

  Sangrin smiled as he added the case next to her name on the board.

  The prick let her get all the way to the door before dealing his low blow. “Oh, Kane, I forgot to tell you – she doesn’t speak a single word of English. Might even be a little . . .” he tapped the side of his head and grinned. “You know . . . slowwwww.”

  Chapter 19

  Royal South Hants Hospital, Winchester

  “Visitors are like buses today, if you’ll pardon the pun,” Ward Sister Kennedy said, as India and Gray approached the nurses’ station. “Nothing for ages then you all come along at once.”

  Gray smiled. “Shayla had a visitor?”

  Susan Kennedy nodded and glanced at the clock. “About fifteen minutes ago. And I’ll tell you the same as I told him – you’ve missed the boat, Miss Begum’s left.”

  “The woman was hit by a bus two days ago,” India said incredulously. “You can’t have kicked her out already.”

  “We’re not in the business of kicking people out,” Sister Kennedy snapped. “She discharged herself against our advice.”

  India tutted and tossed her warrant card on the counter. “Okay, where to. What’s her address?”

  Sister Kennedy tapped a few buttons on her keyboard, beady dark eyes scanning the screen. “Don’t have one.” She glowered when India let out an exasperated huff. “She wasn’t in any fit state to give it when she came in.”

  “You let an injured woman walk out of here with absolutely no idea where she was going?” India said. “You’re shitting me, right?”

  Sister Kennedy’s face darkened, her heavily pencilled brows knitted together to form a menacing monobrow. “We’re nurses. We’re short staffed and working flat-out around the clock fixing people up. We are not responsible for Admissions. If you’ve got a problem with them not recording patient information correctly, I suggest you write to the Hospital Trust and complain. You’ll find the address on there,” she said, slamming a leaflet down on the counter.

  Before India could speak, Gray stepped in front of her, back-hoofing her into silence. “We, I really need to talk to her,” he said. “I think she’s in danger. Is there anything you can think of that might help me find her?”

  India tugged up her trouser leg, wincing at the lump on her shin, as Sister Stroppy turned to putty. “One of the auxiliaries used to work with her at a care home in town. Said she was a funny little thing. Quiet. She got laid off last year when they started shipping in cheap labour from overseas. Your Miss Begum was the cheap labour.”

  When Gray beamed Sister Stroppy a smile, a little bit of sick rose in India’s mouth. “I don’t suppose you can remember what the place was called, can you?” he said.

  With a flutter of the lashes Sister Stroppy spat it out. “Tall Trees,” she gushed. “Took your flowers with her by the way, really made her smile.”

  Flowers? India wearily shook her head. He could have any woman he wanted, so why the hell was he wasting his time looking to the confidence crushing bitch from his past? Not getting enough sleep was starting to affect his judgement. She coughed a loud interruption before his impaired judgement picked up the lascivious signals of Ward Sister Kennedy. The woman was looking at him as though he was edible. “Does she speak English?” India abruptly asked.

  Gray opened his mouth and India raised her hand to stop him. “Does she speak English?” she asked the nurse again.

  “No. She doesn’t. If there’s nothing else, I’m busy.”

  “Looks like it,” India said, nodding at the trashy magazine lying open next to the computer.

  Sister Stroppy rolled it up, tapping it in her palm like a weapon as she emerged from behind the counter. “Goodnight, Gray. I’d prefer it if you brought Sergeant Sangrin next time.”

  India watched her disappear down the hall and into a ward, no doubt spreading her infectious misery to all she encountered. Once gone, she turned her attention to a smirking Gray. ‘Ouch,’ he mouthed.

  “Ouch? I’ll give you ouch,” she said jabbing him in the arm. “That’s for booting me.”

  Gray frowned down at her. “You need to learn when to shut up.”

  “And you need to learn when to let go,” India said. “Why are you the only one who says Shayla Begum speaks English?”

  Gray shrugged. “I don’t know. But she does. And probably better than me.”

  “Hmm, English never was your strong point. And what’s with the flowers?”

  “I felt sorry for her. She got knocked off her bike on her birthday. I didn’t think she had anyone.”

  “Well, now you know she has. How old is she?”

  “Twenty-six,” Gray murmured.

  India inclined her head, wishing she’d had time to read his statement before rushing to meet up. “Anything else I should know?”

  He shook his head. “Are we off to the care home now, then?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, A – no one worth talking to will be there now, and B – this has got nothing to do with you, Gray. You’ve done your job. Let me do mine.”

  “She’s scared enough as it is,” he said. “She definitely won’t speak to you.”

  “So, you do know stuff.” She rough handled him to a corner and lowered her voice. “Spill.”

  He stared down the hospital corridor, raking a hand through his hair. “She was scared, that’s all. Really scared.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Someone had just tried to kill her.”

  Gray grimaced as he met her gaze. “It wasn’t them she was scared of. I got the feeling it was your lot.”

  “Has it occurred to you that she might be an illegal immigrant, you daft sod?”

  Gray looked away, his silence said it all.

  India sighed, saddened by his soft heart. She linked her arm through his as they walked towards the stairs. “Why don’t you come back to mine and have something to eat?”

  “I’ve had dinner already, thanks,” he said sheepishly.

  “Well, for your sake I hope you swerved dessert. What were you saying about Colt earlier?”

  Park Gate, Hampshire

  In the hospital car park, Gray relayed what had occurred at the Old Bailey. India wished he’d told her sooner. Better still, she w
ished Colt had called and told her himself.

  Her blind haste home had seen her take full advantage of the burnt-out ring road speed cameras, but now she was here she felt unsure of her next move.

  She watched him through the houseboat window, pounding the crap out of the punchbag hanging from a rafter in his lounge. Sweat ran down his bare back, soaking the waistband of his shorts. He’d clearly been venting for a while, and showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. India glanced towards the river, her own version of stress relief, and wondered if she should leave him to it. Some people – like her – preferred to deal with things alone. But he wasn’t like her. He needed people.

  Learning to love, India was finding her feet.

  She took one last look towards the river and turned the handle of his front door, anxiously letting herself in.

  “You’re home late,” Colt said, delivering a series of short, sharp jabs to the bag.

  “Or you’re home early,” India said. “I heard about the case collapsing. What happened?”

  “Fucked if I know,” he spat, amid a flurry of punches. “I’ll find out in the morning, the same as everybody else. Until then, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  India tilted her head. “Want me to go?”

  “Hell, no,” he said, glancing up from the bag for the first time. “Cheer me up, babe. Tell me about your day. Must’ve been good for you to run out on me this morning.”

  She raised a shoulder. “I don’t know about good. It’s been long and confusing. I’ve got no progress on the bank robbery, a headless corpse, and an alleged abduction who’s gone missing.”

  Colt laughed. “Isn’t that the nature of abductions – the people are generally missing?”

  India’s lips quirked. “Hence the confusion. It’s long winded, but I managed to snag a drug raid out of it. Should get me on Sangrin’s leader board if nothing else.”

  “Fuck Sangrin and his stupid fucking board,” he said, right hooking the bag hard enough to decapitate some poor bastard. “You should be concentrating on your exams.”