by Bo Brennan
The sprightly tailor tossed the box in the bin and swiftly opened up.
“Sorry for interrupting your lunch –” India started.
“It was a death trap,” he said, beckoning her inside. “Unrefrigerated tuna salad. My daughter’s in for a hefty inheritance when I finally pop my clogs. She’s doing her best to hurry things along. Before my wife died, I seldom saw her. Now she’s moved in, tipped my scotch down the sink and been making me rotten lunches every day since. There was even a care home brochure on the kitchen table this morning.”
India winced. Hoped for his sake the care home in question wasn’t Tall Trees. Her eyes scanned the crammed rails of menswear lining every inch of wall. “I was told you make graduation robes here,” she said, seeing no evidence of such.
“That’s right. For over a hundred and fifty years. My grandfather started this business and my father left here in a box. Dropped dead right where you’re standing actually.” He gestured around centuries of cramped claustrophobic clutter. “Three storeys. Academia on the second, Judicial on the third. Would make wonderful apartments, apparently. I told her she’d have to finish me off first. She’s doing her best. In fact, it’s the most effort she’s ever put into anything in her life.”
India pulled out her warrant card. “Want to make your complaint official?”
He reeled as though she’d slapped him. “Good heavens, no.”
India stared at him. “I’m a police officer, sir. I’d be negligent in my duty if I didn’t ask.”
“One of the many hazards of outliving your beloved,” he said. “A word of advice – make sure you shuffle off first, dear. Anyway, I’m sure you’re not here to listen to the ramblings of a paranoid old fart, what can I do for you, officer?”
India handed him the graduation photo. “I was hoping you might be able to tell me where this picture was taken.”
Oddly, he lifted his glasses to his leathery, liver-spotted forehead to look at it with undressed eyes. “Isn’t that the woman from the news?”
“It is,” India said, suitably impressed. “I’d bin those glasses. Your eyes are sharper than most of my colleagues.”
He squinted up at her like a mole in sunlight. “Longsighted, dear. Brain’s not so sharp, I’m afraid. One of your colleagues dropped a missing poster in for her last week. I forgot to put it up again after the windows were cleaned.”
India was grateful. Most shops in town didn’t like to clutter their store fronts with missing posters and crime appeals. Their concern in their local community confined strictly to credit cards and cash. “It’s my understanding the cut and colour of the robes could help pinpoint which university she went to. She worked in Human Resources if that’s any help.”
“I can’t tell you anything about her,” he said, returning his gaze to the picture. “But her friend’s a doctor.”
“A doctor?”
“That’s right,” he said, tapping the picture with a shaky arthritic finger. “Only doctors graduate in Tudor Bonnets, dear.”
India frowned. She had been working under the assumption Nazreem Sinder was the graduate. Maybe this fella’s eyesight wasn’t quite so sharp after all. “They’re very alike, sir,” she said. “What makes you think it’s not the lady from the news wearing the robes and bonnet?”
He dropped his glasses back to his nose and stepped behind the counter. Retrieving his copy of the police missing poster from a drawer, he laid it on the counter top next to the photograph. “Fifty-seven, fifty-seven,” he said, pointing to the bare headed woman in the photo and then at the Preston brothers’ sketch. Tapping the woman graduating, he added, “Absolute maximum fifty-four.”
India stared at him blankly.
“You’re fifty-nine,” he said with a smile. “Shall we check?”
India stood motionless as he whipped the tape measure from his neck and proceeded to measure her head.
“See?” He held out the tape for her approval, pinched at exactly fifty-nine centimetres.
India huffed a chuckle. “Your brain’s sharper than you think.”
“When you’ve been tailoring as long as I have, you see everyone in measurements,” he said, giving her the once over. “Inside leg, eighty-six. Off the peg, thirty-four . . .”
India held up her hand. “Correct. Put your tape measure away,” she said, before he got touchy feely and she had to break his fingers. “Tell me what sort of doctor she is. GP? Hospital?”
“Well, now. There are numerous doctorates and most of them aren’t medical.” He looped the tape around his neck, smoothing it down tweed lapels as he spoke. “She could be a doctor of law, literature, philosophy, science, any of the subsets . . . the list is almost endless.”
India tutted, feeling like a hopeless heathen.
He peered pompously over his glasses. “I take it you didn’t get to university, officer.”
“I barely scraped through school,” she murmured, looking out to the street where a traffic warden was circling her car.
“Count yourself lucky,” he said. “You have a career. Half the brainboxes I fit for robes end up stacking shelves in supermarkets.”
Or wiping arses in care homes, India thought. “Don’t happen to recognise her as an ex-customer, do you?”
“Oh no, dear. She’s not local. I have the exclusive contract for Winchester University’s academic dress . . . and that’s not it.”
Her gaze snapped back his way. “So there are differences?”
“Of course. Every institution has their own.”
India’s spine straightened. “How do I find out which university hers belongs to?”
He rooted through the drawer and pulled out a ring binder, setting it down on the counter with a thud and an unhealthy sprinkling of dust. “The bible of academic dress,” he said, running his hand across the tatty cover. “The Groves Classification System.”
India stared at the binder’s yellowing loose leaves, the sheer magnitude of the task filling her with dread.
“A good place to start is the bonnet. Black velvet with silver grey cord and tassel will narrow it down considerably.” He picked up the photograph again. This time as his glasses went up, his lips turned down, scrutinising it closely. “Can’t see the hood at all nor the shape and cut of the gown, but the colours are clear enough. Silver grey with facings of red,” he murmured, tilting the photograph to the light. “Hmm, I spy a glimpse of grey lining and red cord and a button on the sleeve. Leave it with me,” he said, smiling as he squinted up at her. “I’ll be able to tell you where she’s from in a couple of days.”
When India stepped from the store, the traffic warden gave a self-satisfied smile as he slapped the ticket on her windscreen.
She looked past him to the empty hunting and fishing shop next door. The middle-aged man at the till craned his neck for a better view of the woman blocking access to his store. India locked eyes with him and moved for the door. She didn’t feel like she owed the shopkeeper anything, but she did feel like she owed Colt.
The traffic warden stepped into her path. “This your car?”
“Yep.”
“You can’t leave it there.”
“Watch me.” India jutted her chin at the fine on her windscreen. “I’ve paid to park, now I’m going shopping.”
His brows bunched and his lips tightened. Bearing down on her, he snarled, “Get it moved or I’ll get it towed and crushed, you mouthy cow.”
India pressed her warrant card to his nose. “The only toe you’ll be getting is mine up your arse if you don’t get the fuck out of my face, bully boy.”
With a grunted apology, he stepped aside, and India stepped into the fishing and hunting shop.
Chapter 34
Elstree, London
“I thought you might have called me before you went all Wild West at the mosque yesterday, sweetheart,” Miranda purred, her warm fingers caressing and teasing the hair on his chest.
Colt placed his hand firmly over hers as her nails edged
towards the bite mark India had left behind. “I called you after,” he said, looking down at her.
“A cigarette’s for after, sweetie. Miranda always comes first.” She raised a perfectly plucked brow, winked, and sashayed off onto set, leaving the sound man to finish positioning the microphone under his shirt.
Miranda Ayres had quite a sashay. Colt was pretty sure it had played a part in getting her own current affairs programme. Strangely, the feminists seemed the only group not represented by waving placards outside the studio tonight.
“You’re good to go. Sign here,” the sound man said, holding up a pen.
Colt looked down at the small leather bound book in the sound man’s hand. “For what?”
“My grandad,” he said. “It’s his birthday today, forgot to get him a present. Loves his rugby, always been a huge fan of yours,” he added as an afterthought.
Colt grudgingly signed the book as a young woman, dressed entirely in black, emerged from the shadows wielding a make-up caked sponge. He jerked his head back to avoid her assault. “It’s hot under the lights. You’ll look pale and shiny without it,” she warned.
He’d caught the train here, left his car at the station as usual. There were a lot of people between him and home. And he had no intention of facing them looking like he’d been tangoed. “I’ll live,” he murmured.
“It’s an all-male panel tonight,” she said, pointing across the studio to where the other three guests were taking their seats. “They’re all wearing it.”
Colt scanned the heavily made-up men, already arranged on two snug sofas placed either side of the host’s chair. The empty space indicated he would be on the sofa to her right. His gaze flattened on the guest getting comfy to her left, hands braced on widely spread knees to accommodate his gigantic bollocks. With a wry smile, Colt pulled his phone from his pocket . . . and the sponge hit its target.
WildCatz Gentlemen’s Club, Gunwharf Quays, Hampshire
India paid on the door and took the patron’s route inside. Colt hadn’t been home when she’d set out. His car had gone, so had the stuff on her deck. She’d tried to get hold of him, see if he wanted to make a night of it. But her calls went unanswered. Apparently, he was busy.
She hoped wherever he was, was more fun than here.
There were plenty of empty tables surrounding the Wildcatz stage. India imagined the place would be heaving on a Saturday night; instead a handful of solitary sleazebags secreted themselves in secluded corners, where their faces – and hands – could remain unseen.
The same couldn’t be said for Melody Fletcher’s butt cheeks. A slathering of baby oil transformed them into glistening glossy globes, writhing between the fat thighs of a faceless punter.
India sat in plain sight. Picked a table directly under the red haze of stage lights, tapping her foot to the pounding throb of music as she watched and waited.
The woman had an incredible body and she knew how to use it.
The more India saw, the more difficult it became to reconcile this version of Melody Fletcher with the dowdy bank cashier she’d first encountered last month.
Her teasing toil was over quickly. A chubby hand reached out of the darkness to poke money into Melody’s pants, and India couldn’t help but wonder what the other hand was doing.
A slap on the arse from Fat Thighs sent Melody on her way.
Her face fell when she saw India. Her smile little more than a baring of teeth by the time she arrived at her table. “You can’t just keep turning up here,” she said. “You’ll get me in trouble. I need this job.”
“How much?”
Melody frowned. “What?”
India inclined her head. “For a dance. How much?”
Melody wet her lips. “Ten for two minutes.”
I’m in the wrong job, India thought, taking out her purse. She held up five and two tens. “Five minutes of your time,” she said, and tucked the notes into Melody’s skimpy knickers alongside the rest of her night’s earnings. “Now dance.”
Melody did. Not a hint of awkwardness in her. In fact, she seemed to be enjoying herself a little too much . . . until India held up the Preston brothers’ sketch of the bank robber. “D’you know this man?” she asked.
Melody stilled mid bodysurf, her glittery pink false nails digging into India’s thighs. “No,” she said, nervously looking around as a rowdy group of men filled the remaining tables surrounding the stage. “Never seen him before in my life. Look, it’s been fun but I need to get back to work,” she said. “Some of my regulars are in.”
India gripped her sinewy arm and felt the muscles and tendons tense under her fingers. “You are working. I paid for your time. It’s not up yet, keep dancing.”
Melody swallowed hard. “Fine. But put that away before someone sees it.”
“Why?” India asked, waving the picture in the air. “Does he come in here? Has he threatened you?”
“For God’s sake,” Melody hissed, grabbing the picture and crumpling it into India’s lap. “I’ve got no fucking idea who that is, but I don’t want people thinking I talk to the police. We get all sorts in here. They won’t pay me if they think they can’t trust me.”
India glanced over Melody’s shoulder, spotted the Tank curiously looking their way. “Dance,” she said. “You’re drawing attention.”
A consummate pro, Melody continued with no less sway in her hips or swing in her tits than before. India couldn’t take her eyes off her. It was easy to see how a fool and his money could be parted by this woman. But what else might a fool be prepared to do for her?
“The thing is, Melody, other people witnessed the bank robbery,” she said. “And they’re adamant it was the man in that picture. Which makes me think you lied.”
“I told you,” Melody said, pressing her breasts to India’s face and her lips to India’s ear. “No one else was there.”
“Maybe not inside the bank,” India said. “But there were three people at the bus stop across the street. And one of them is dead.”
India didn’t get the opportunity to read her face as she digested the information. All she saw was her glistening arse as Melody finished on a spectacular slut-drop. “Time’s up. In future, you want to talk or . . . whatever it is you want from me,” she said, and bit her bottom lip as she looked India up and down. “Come see me at home. It’ll be cheaper.”
India stared at her, not sure whether to be flattered or insulted by the proposition. “I might just do that.”
She watched as Melody and her swaying nipple tassels strutted up to the stage and effortlessly took to the pole. The men jeered and threw bank notes as she clamped the metal between her thighs and swung upside down.
It all looked too damned easy.
As Melody plucked money off the floor with her teeth, India wondered if she was looking at the case upside down.
She thought back to what Nisha Fisher had said concerning the NCA’s sudden involvement. Nisha thought the dead woman knew something they were keen to keep covered.
And the Preston brothers said she always had her nose in a book.
Maybe Nazreem Sinder hadn’t actually witnessed the robbery at all. Maybe the robber had witnessed Nazreem Sinder. But whatever had happened that day, she was sure Melody Fletcher knew more.
Chapter 35
Elstree, London
Colt switched off his phone as the agitated producer rushed him to his seat.
He manoeuvred his bulk into the cramped space directly to the right of the host, sharing the small sofa with a familiar looking man wearing full Islamic dress and sporting a badge for the Muslim Council of Britain.
The man with the badge edged outwards. Colt wasn’t sure whether it was to give him more room or to gain more distance – either way, he didn’t care. His sights were set on Billy Big Bollocks on the sofa opposite. “Evening,” he said.
Silently seething National Front Councillor Colin Cooper, stared back.
The air bristled.
; Miranda Ayres predatory eyes darted back and forth between the two men. “It’s gonna be a great show,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Keep it clean, boys. Don’t forget we’re pre-watershed.”
A disembodied voice came from behind the lights, “And we’re live in five – four – three – two . . .”
“Welcome to Primetime Issues with me, Miranda Ayres, getting to the heart of the current issues that matter to you – the viewing public – the most. Today my panel of experts will be discussing gangs, girls, and grooming. As this terrifying crime wave sweeps Britain, I’ll be seeking an answer to the tough question on everybody’s lips: Is this race related?”
A few dramatic drum beats followed, launching the short and snappy theme tune. Miranda stared pointedly into the camera, waiting for it to finish.
She wasted no time when it did, skipping swiftly through the introductions and backgrounds of her guests.
Colt learned the man beside him was indeed affiliated with the Muslim Council of Britain – Amjit Singh was their spokesman. The other fella – looking particularly uncomfortable next to cocksure Cooper and his copious man-spreading – was a director of human rights group Liberty, but for the life of him, Colt couldn’t catch his name.
As soon as the introductions were over, the giant screen enclosing the set switched from the busy vista of London Bridge to a VT montage of protests, arrests, court scenes, and an inflammatory two-minute dramatisation showing a young white girl getting into a car full of Asian men. The screen froze provocatively on an image of the teen swilling from a bottle of cheap vodka as the men wolfishly looked on.
Miranda Ayres set her sombre sights on Amjit Singh first. “This is your culture, your community on trial. Is this race related?”
“Of course it is,” Colin Cooper scoffed. “All white victims. All Pakistani Muslim perpetrators. What more evidence d’you need?”
Miranda Ayres raised a manicured hand. “You’ll get your turn, Councillor. Amjit?”
