by Bo Brennan
“I am.” India stared at him. “Are you sure you don’t want me to leave?”
He stilled to rest his head against the punch bag, momentarily taking a breather. “I don’t ever want you to leave,” he murmured. India watched his tattoos dance with every twitch of his restless muscles, could feel the rage still radiating from within him. He was far from done yet. With a deep nasal breath, he straightened up and swung the bag away. Glaring at it as though it were his worst enemy, he resumed his workout. “Tell me about your headless corpse,” he said. “Sounds interesting.”
“It is.” Resigned to staying, she perched on the back of the sofa alongside his towel. “An honour killing, apparently.”
“That’s gotta be a first for Hampshire.”
India shrugged. “It’s a first for me. D’you know anything about FGM?”
His eyes quizzically met hers as he ducked and dived, avoiding the hefty returning bag. “Female genital mutilation?”
India nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“Only the stuff bandied about at child protection conferences,” he said, delivering a mean upper cut. “It’s not really the sort of thing we encounter in the Paedophile Unit.”
“That surprises me,” India said. “It’s a Muslim thing, and you’ve encountered plenty of them lately.”
Colt abruptly stopped punching and set his jaw. “Religion’s got nothing to do with it.”
India pursed her lips and crossed her arms. “Says the man responsible for bringing ten Muslim men to trial for grooming hundreds of vulnerable white schoolgirls.”
“They’re hardly fucking religious. They drink, smoke, take drugs. They’re straight forward arseholes and criminals, India, not men of God.”
“Arseholes and criminals who genitally mutilate young girls who share their faith, and sexually exploit the ones who don’t,” she huffed.
Colt frowned and wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of a bandaged hand. “I might not know much about FGM, but I do know it’s generally performed by women.”
“For religion.”
“For warped traditions,” Colt countered. “There’s all sorts of ridiculous reasons, but religion isn’t one of them. You won’t find it in any holy book. In fact, you won’t find honour killings or sexual exploitation advocated in any of them either. Religion’s not to blame for the mistreatment of women and children, India. Bad men are.”
“I’ll bow to your superior knowledge on that one, altar boy,” she said, throwing him the towel. “Someone’s coming down from the Home Office to mash my brains with all the gory details tomorrow.”
“You’ll be able to come home and tell me I’m right then.” He rubbed the towel over his head before slinging it around his neck. “You going for a swim?”
“Nah, not tonight. You look like a much better stress reducing proposition,” she said, running her eyes over his body. “I kinda like it when you’re pumped and angry.”
Colt raised a brow as he unwrapped the bandages from his hands and threw them on the side. “I need to grab a shower, babe. Unless you like it when I’m sweaty too.”
India tugged at his nipple with her teeth. “The sweatier the better, big man.”
Chapter 20
Thursday, 8th March
Winchester, Hampshire
India cut the engine and glanced up at the imposing Tall Trees Care Home. The Victorian architecture was grand. The sprawling grounds immaculate. There were trees. Tall ones. And while the well-wrapped man chugging across the lawn on a ride-on-mower added to the illusion of grandeur – the wrought iron bars on the care home windows shattered it.
On her passenger seat, Shayla Begum’s attempted murder file sat open. India tugged out the single sheet of paper bearing Gray’s name, and shuffled the file seeking the rest of his witness statement. The traffic division’s Sergeant Trevor Marshall was fastidious, had earned the moniker Textbook Trev honestly. Sangrin had earned his too. And Sergeant Shit-Fer-Brains had also handled the file, so it was little wonder things weren’t in order.
India tutted and shook her head. Didn’t have time for his games today, had a drug raid and Home Office lecture to attend. She skimmed what she had in her hand and frowned. Gray’s statement wasn’t missing, it was brief. One page of brief. All it contained was the woman’s name. No birthday, no fear, no detail. As first responder in such prolonged proximity to the victim, it should have been filled with the sort of in-depth minutiae he was accustomed to capturing, the stuff investigators loved – could pick and paw, dissect for hours. But it wasn’t. It was shit. Might as well have been a blank page for what use it was.
With a sigh, India tucked the folder under her arm and stepped from her car, crunching across the drive to the Tall Trees entrance.
Had to buzz a security intercom to get in. Apparently, visitors weren’t welcome at the Tall Trees Care Home around feeding time. Sitting in the stuffy reception area, picking shingle out of the treads of her boots and leaving the liberated stones in a neat little pile on the table beside her, India could see why.
God’s waiting room was a cruel slap in the face from mortality.
India stared at the unsteady stream of geriatrics – still in piss-stained pyjamas and wrinkled winceyette nighties – as they shuffled through on Zimmer frames and slow brittle bones to the dining room. With a shudder, she looked away, hoping to avoid a confrontation with her own worst fears. But it was already in there. Taunting vividly in her head. India Kane, old and lonely, ending up in a place like this.
If she was glimpsing her own future, a dumped inconvenience at the mercy of young care workers pinging her knicker elastic for fun, oh God, she wanted to be smothered now.
She focused on the window as the morning brightened and sunshine pierced the rain clouds. Shafts of light filtered through the blinds, slicing the stifling waiting area into alternating shards of light and dark, life and death. Her gaze followed the journey of airborne speckled dust particles as they floated down to settle on a dried flower arrangement on the windowsill. At the dated arrangement’s base was a tangle of dusty cobwebs, and she wondered if those dust particles were the detritus of human decay.
“Detective.” A stern voice broke the morbid thought and India turned to find a middle-aged woman in a sharp suit, sporting a French pleat so severe it acted as a temporary face lift. “Marjorie Simpson. Manager,” she said, forcefully extending her hand. “This way, please.”
India followed her down a bland corridor, almost choking on the woman’s pungent perfume, which did little to mask the underlying aroma of urine and other, more unpalatable, bodily fluids. “Take a seat,” she said, showing her into a bright and airy office where fresh flowers adorned the sill.
India cautiously checked the chair before sitting, comforted the covering was wipe-down PVC. “I’m looking for this woman,” she said, handing the Pocahontas sketch to the manager as she slipped behind her desk. “Shayla Begum. I believe she works here.”
Marjorie Simpson glanced at the picture and frowned. “Shayla Begum does work here, but that’s not her. That’s Nazreem.”
“Nazreem?” India enquired.
“Yes. Nazreem Sinder. My HR Manager.”
“Are you sure that’s Nazreem and not Shayla Begum?”
“Of course,” Marjorie said, handing the picture back. “Neither of them has bothered coming into work since Monday mind, not even bothered to call.”
India sat up straighter. Gray was right. There are two of them. “Are they related?”
“No.” Marjorie snorted a chuckle. “They all look the same don’t they.”
India stared at her. “Do they?”
“Well, apart from Shayla’s boyish hair,” Marjorie said, raising a hand to give her own coiffed do a gentle pat at the nape. “Doesn’t speak a word of English, that one.”
So says everyone except Gray, India thought. “Where is Shayla from, Mrs Simpson?”
“Pakistan, I presume.”
“You presume?”
&n
bsp; “Well, most of our unskilled workers come from Pakistan or Albania these days, and she’s far too brown to be Albanian.” Marjorie gave a little shrug when India raised a brow. “Nazreem is the HR Manager, detective. She deals with the hiring. You’re best off asking her. I don’t really get involved in all of that.”
Her line of questioning as dead in the water as she feared the HR Manager probably was, India changed tack in an effort to clearly define who the hell was who. “Do you know how Shayla Begum gets to work?”
“Rides a bike, I believe.” Not anymore, India thought. It’s well and truly mangled.
“And Nazreem Sinder?”
“As far as I’m aware she catches the bus.” Bingo. If bike-riding Shayla was the one in the hospital, bus-catching abductee Nazreem was probably in the mortuary. “What’s this all about, detective?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” India said. “I’m going to need both their addresses and next of kin information.”
She shut off at Marjorie’s rambling response. Didn’t need to hear what the woman was saying, it was always the same. Warrant, blah blah, Data Protection Act, blah bloody blah. While the care home manager waffled, India scanned the room looking for her leverage. Found it on the shift rota board displayed on the wall behind Marjorie’s head, hardly a pronounceable name on it. “You got the right paperwork for all these people. Work visas, etcetera?” she asked pointing to the white board.
Marjorie swallowed hard and grimaced. “Of course,” she said, nervously wringing her hands. “We have a Home Office license.”
India pulled her phone from her pocket and fumbled with the buttons. “You won’t mind me calling in the immigration folks to get the details I need then.” She had no idea what the ever-changing Border Agency were calling themselves these days, but the closest thing she had to them in her contacts list was ‘The Border Pizza and Kebab Palace’ up the road from her houseboat. And they certainly couldn’t help; Winchester was way outside their delivery radius.
But who cares – the bluff worked. Marjorie folded.
“Oh, we don’t need all that delay and inconvenience, detective,” she said, summoning the falsest smile her face could muster against the tight pull of her hair. “If you can’t trust the police to look after your data, who can you trust?”
India returned her phone to her pocket as Marjorie swivelled in her chair to shakily unlock the filing cabinet. “How long have these two women been employed here, Mrs Simpson?” she asked.
“Nazreem has been with me for three years,” she said, tugging a blue folder free of the cabinet. “Very conscientious girl. Never had a problem with her until this week, well, apart from the wisdom teeth fiasco six months back. Took a whole week off when she had them out. The other one started about a month later with the new intake.”
“And what does the other one do?”
“Night care assistant. I don’t really have much to do with them. Their shift starts at 5pm and finishes at 8am. By the time I arrive of a morning the night staff are long gone. Aha!” Marjorie let out a little yelp of delight as she located the second file. She wanted India out of here as much as India wanted out herself. Could feel her skin withering with every passing second. Probably being paranoid, but the smell of piss seemed to be creeping under the door.
“What about morning changeovers between shifts?” she asked, rubbing at her nose. “Who’s responsible for those?”
“Nazreem,” Marjorie said, swivelling back to her desk. “Her employment contract is eight-to-five, six days a week. There’s no point in us both being here that early.”
“You’re here now,” India said, stating the blindingly obvious.
“Well somebody has to be.” Marjorie’s shoulders slumped. “She’s really left me in the lurch this week. The other one letting me down I can live with. Any monkey can do her job. But Nazreem’s? No. She’s a keyholder. A valued and trusted member of staff. I’m so disappointed in her.”
India rolled her eyes. “So, presumably Nazreem last saw Shayla at 8am on Monday morning, and you last saw Nazreem at 5pm on Monday night,” she said. “Is that right?”
“No, I leave early on Mondays,” Marjorie said, copying information from the open files to her notepad. “I have a regular hair appointment at three.”
What do you actually do here? India thought. “Did you take up references, visa and criminal record checks on Shayla and Nazreem at the start of their employment?” she said.
Marjorie Simpson stilled, lifted her narrowed eyes to India’s. “Why, have they done something wrong?”
“Did you take up the checks, Mrs Simpson?”
“Nazreem’s an office-based worker. She doesn’t deal directly with the clients and she’s British, I didn’t feel it necessary to get a criminal record check,” she said quietly. “But she came highly recommended, her references were outstanding. And as human resources manager, she’s responsible for the hiring of all other workers here, so she would’ve taken up the relevant checks on the other one as standard.”
“You’d better give me those details as well.” India glanced at her watch. She needed to discuss this with Firman before Nisha Fisher arrived. Depending how much of her afternoon the Home Office wasted, she might struggle to get back here before Marjorie pissed off home for the evening. “Just jot down their addresses and I’ll call back for the rest tomorrow.”
Marjorie returned her gaze to the files. “Oh, that can’t be right,” she mumbled, shaking her head.
“What’s not right?”
“The filing. The stupid girl has got them all mixed up.”
India gritted her teeth. “And which stupid girl would that be?”
“Nazreem, of course,” Marjorie snapped. “Other than me, she’s the only person with access to the personnel files.”
India craned her neck to see the address scrawled across Marjorie’s pad. “Whose address is that?”
Marjorie threw her hands in the air. “Your guess is as good as mine, detective. The stupid girl has put the same address down for both of them. I’ll have to go through and double-check every single detail now.”
India stood and snatched the files from Marjorie’s desk. “I haven’t got time for that. I need this information now.” She scanned both files, checking the identical address details for herself. Kings Worthy. The rural outskirts, north of the city. Exactly where the bus driver indicated Nazreem Sinder got off every evening. The only difference in the files’ key points were their payment details. Where Sinder listed a Central Bank account, Shayla Begum’s section was blank. India offered the files back to Marjorie. “Make complete copies of these. I’ll collect them later.”
The manager raised her palms, a look of disdain on her face. “Keep them,” she said. “And if you catch up with either of them, do me a favour and tell them they’re sacked.”
India added the folders to her own and handed the manager her card. “Call me straight away if they turn up, or if anybody comes looking for them.”
“I’ll be sure to,” Marjorie said, opening the office door and ushering her out into the corridor.
India stopped abruptly. “Do you watch TV, Mrs Simpson?”
Marjorie Simpson frowned, not wanting to extend the conversation any longer than necessary.
“Did you see the big accident all over the news on Monday? Just up the road from here?”
The care home manager stared at her blankly.
“Woman trapped under a bus?” India pressed.
“Oh, yes.” A little glint appeared in her eye and her lips curved salaciously, knocking ten years off her face. “The fireman,” she cooed. “The camera kept alternating between shots of his face and his –”
“It was your employee trapped under that bus. The other one. Shayla Begum. I’ll see myself out,” India said, striding for the door. “Some of us have work to do.”
“Give her my best, won’t you, detective,” Marjorie called down the corridor behind her.
India
shook her head as the receptionist buzzed her out the main door. “Would that be before or after I’ve told her she’s sacked?”
Chapter 21
The Paedophile Unit, New Scotland Yard, London
The mood in the unit was sombre, and Michael Moore was late. He bustled into Colt’s office just before ten, with Doug Henderson from The National Crime Agency in tow. Colt looked beyond them to the main door. “Commander Hussein not with you?” he asked.
Michael shook his head as he took a seat opposite Maggie. “He’s still briefing the Home Office about yesterday’s riots.”
“Probably won’t see him for the rest of the day,” Doug Henderson said.
“Suits me,” Maggie murmured.
Doug Henderson grinned at her. “Coffee with two suits me.”
“You know where the kettle is,” she said. “Help yourself.”
Colt propped his elbows on his desk. “Get on with it, Michael. We’re all busy people. Put us out of our misery, will you.”
Michael Moore cleared his throat and the tension increased as silence descended. “Yesterday, during legal arguments, the defence produced evidence that the victims and defendants had been in communication with each other throughout the trial.”
Maggie huffed and crossed her arms. “No surprise there then.”
“So why weren’t they remanded on the spot?” Colt said. “Every one of them was served with multiple Child Abduction Warning Notices informing them of the girls’ ages and the consequences of being in contact with them.”
“And the legal duty to disclose such contact,” Michael Moore said, and for a split-second Colt was sure he saw a flicker of opportunity flash in the prosecutor’s eyes. “And disclose it they did.”
He placed a Dictaphone on the desk.
They all listened intently as thirteen-year-old Kylie Jones declared her undying love to Mohammed Bashir during a taped telephone conversation, and said her father was forcing her to testify against him because he was racist and wanted compensation to fund the National Front.
