by Bo Brennan
The bedroom curtains were open; daylight streamed in as they silently undressed each other and tumbled into bed.
As he settled between her thighs, he gazed down at her. She was as beautiful as ever. Everything he’d ever wanted and more.
He’d missed her so much. Had yearned for the comfortable, confident caress of a familiar lover for so long.
They made love slowly, awkwardly. Missionary. Her eyes were empty. A stranger gazing up at him. Gray’s eyes slid closed, desperately seeking the melting and melding of bodies the passage of time prevented. Not seeing helped. But it wasn’t the same. The closeness had gone. The spark was extinguished.
He didn’t want to think about it.
He wanted release. Needed relief.
His mind drifted to the fire, and his heart rate increased along with his pace. He thought about the dead and injured. Love and loss and loneliness. And anger. So much anger.
Gritting his teeth, he pounded harder and faster until he plummeted into pleasurable oblivion, crying out her name.
The pleasure ended abruptly.
“Who the fuck is Shayla?”
His eyes flew open to find a furiously dishevelled Cara glaring back at him. Her eyes weren’t empty anymore. Now they were full of hurt . . . and hate.
“Who is she?” she screamed, clawing at him like a feral cat. Bewildered, he grabbed her wrists, pinning her down as he silently sat up.
“Answer me, Gray! Have you been screwing someone else?”
“No,” he said, ducking off the bed as her fists drummed on his back. “There hasn’t been anyone since the day you shagged Dodgy fucking Dave.”
“Then who is she?” she demanded. “Who’s Shayla?”
Gray fled to the only room in the house with a lock, shutting her out.
Fuck! He punched the bathroom wall in anger. If it didn’t feel right, why the fuck didn’t he just stop?
For the third time that day, he climbed into the shower. Set the temperature to cold. Splayed his hands against the wall as the icy blast brought him back to his senses. He didn’t stop because he wanted it to feel right. Wanted them to be how, and who, they used to be.
But they couldn’t. They were broken. Shattered into a million pieces.
He rested his head against the tiles and allowed the cold, cutting truth of them to hurt him one last time. The pieces didn’t fit anymore.
By the time he emerged, cool, calm, and ready to talk, she’d gathered her things and gone.
Royal South Hants Hospital, Winchester
Shayla Begum felt the oxygen mask lift, and opened her eyes expecting to see the nice nurse. All she saw was darkness as the pillow covered her face.
With only one arm working, she lashed out blindly, fingers and feet hitting nothing but air as the pressure and panic increased. Her chest heaved, lungs ached, everything hurt. Somewhere she could hear shouting and screaming. Maybe it was inside her. It grew ever more distant as she faded further into the darkness.
Chapter 40
Park Gate, Hampshire
India sprawled on Colt’s couch, shaking her head as she watched him punishing himself for eating cake. Ten Hail Mary’s would’ve been a blessing. “How would you go about finding someone who doesn’t exist?” she said.
Colt didn’t pause pumping out press-ups. “Is that a trick question?”
“No. Shayla Begum’s real enough to get an education, a job, and hit by a bus.”
“Then she exists.”
“Not for the purposes of tax, a bank account, or home address, she doesn’t.”
“Then she’s intentionally gone off radar. Presumably you’ve checked all the usual avenues?”
“Yeah, everywhere except Witness Protection. How can I check that?”
“You can’t.” Colt turned around and started doing sit-ups. “But you don’t need to. I can tell you she’s not in it.”
India frowned. “How do you know?”
“If she was in WP we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Shayla Begum would exist. She’d have history. Her new identity would be backstopped to withstand this sort of scrutiny. Sounds to me like she deliberately disappeared. Fleeing a forced marriage would fit.”
Sounded that way to India too. In her most energetic display of the day thus far, she reached over her head for her ringing phone, and slapped it to her ear. But when PC Kate Wesson said Shayla Begum was back in the Royal South Hants, you couldn’t see her arse for dust.
Royal South Hants Hospital
There were so many uniforms loitering it looked more like The Nag’s Head during an after-hours piss-up than a hospital. India felt their eyes following her down the ward. She looked back at the strangely silent firefighters. “Haven’t you lot got lifts to unlock or something?”
She frowned when no banter was returned.
At the nurses’ station, Ward Sister Kennedy had a cold compress held to her face and a mournful air as her teary team fussed around her. “You okay?” India said, feeling like she’d turned up at a funeral in fancy dress.
Sister Kennedy lifted the compress to show an eye swollen shut. “What do you think.”
India thought it more sarcasm than question, but since Gray wasn’t there to buffer she’d have to make do and mend. “I think I’d like to see the other guy.”
“So would they,” she said, gesturing to the firefighters. “The bastard tried to smother that poor girl. Headbutted me when I tried to stop him. Then the coward ran off before I could get up and kick his arse. I’ve given PC Wesson my statement. She’s in with Shayla.”
India pocketed her notebook, liking the woman’s no shit attitude. “We’ll try and get an image off your security cameras but they’re usually crap,” she said. “Got a great sketch artist, think you could work with him to get a decent pic?”
“Oh yeah, definitely. He might have been an arsehole but he was a memorable arsehole. Big scar on his cheek. Same guy visited her last week.”
India’s stomach fluttered. She pulled up the Preston brothers sketch on her phone. “That him, by any chance?”
“That’s him,” Sister Kennedy said. “Is he the one who ran her off her bike as well?”
“I think so.”
“Oh God,” she said, looking at the firefighters again. “Don’t show them. They won’t rest until he’s caught.”
Standing like they were on parade, they hadn’t moved since India walked in. “Aren’t they from Gray’s watch?”
Sister Kennedy sniffed. “It’s the whole crew. They’ve been stood down because of the deaths. Won’t leave the girl. Said they owe it to Gray and Charlie to keep her safe.” She wiped her weepy eyes with the compress. “Came straight up from the mortuary when they heard what happened.”
“Mortuary?” India scanned their sombre faces and her blood ran cold. “Where’s Gray and Charlie?”
No one said a word.
“Where are they?” she demanded.
“India?” Kate Wesson appeared at her side, a plastic apron covering her uniform. “I’m sorry, I –”
“No. Don’t start with sorry,” India said, backing down the corridor, trying to rewind. She looked round at the sound of someone running, and crumpled when she saw Colt. “No, no, no, I left you at home.”
“Gray’s okay,” he said, catching her as she fell. “I’ve just spoken to him.”
India gripped his shirt for dear life. “Where is he?”
“He didn’t say. He needs a bit of time. But he’s okay, babe. I promise you.”
She looked to the distraught firefighters, standing to attention. Two faces were missing. “Where’s Charlie?”
Colt shook his head, and India buried her face in his chest.
Chapter 41
Monday, 12th March
Hampshire CID, Winchester
When the meeting room door finally opened, a sea of suits and official uniforms flooded forth on a spring tide of pomp and pissing importance. India stood up as they ebbed from the department, and turned
her attention to her boss.
It had been a while since DCI Firman had worn the full regalia. He resembled ten pounds of spuds in a five-pound sack.
“Who’s that lot?” she said, following him into his office.
“Top brass from West Sussex and London Fire Brigades. They’re helping us establish what happened at Cantilever Court.”
“What’s it got to do with them? Why aren’t Hampshire doing it?”
“They can’t. It’s not a straight forward arson investigation. Hampshire lost a man in that fire, which also makes it a death in the workplace accident. We’re duty bound to investigate employer negligence on behalf of the coroner.” He sucked in a breath as he undid the shiny buttons of his jacket, straining across his pensionable paunch. “I’ve given it to Sangrin. He’s at the council now, making enquiries into bodged-up building work. Fucking place was a death trap, by all accounts.”
India went to speak, but Firman cut her off. “Shut the door and sit down,” he said, hanging his jacket on the back of his chair. “How’s Gray?”
India lowered herself into a seat. “Don’t know. Haven’t spoken to him.”
Firman tugged clumsily at the neat knot in his tie. India couldn’t help but wonder if his wife had tied it for him. “Any idea where he is? Sangrin wants to talk to him and he’s not answering his phone or door.”
“Nope.” And it hurt. She could hazard a guess he’d turned to the church of Cara to provide comfort in his time of despair, but she wasn’t about to punish him by sending Shit-Fer-Brains there. “You know what he’s like. He deals with things quietly, in his own way, in his own time. He’ll turn up sooner or later.”
Firman dropped his tie on the desk and his arse in his seat, sweating like a man who’d escaped a noose. “Sooner would be better. He carried out Cantilever Court’s annual fire safety inspection last week.”
India stiffened. “What’re you saying?”
“I’m not saying anything until I’ve seen the inspection report.”
“You shouldn’t give a shit what it says. You know Gray. He’s meticulous at everything. His reports make Textbook Trev’s look sloppy. This is not his fault. Don’t you dare let them try to blame him for this.”
Firman raised his hands defensively. “No one’s blaming anyone. But people died in that fire, India.”
“And those who didn’t will live with it for the rest of their lives. Gray and Charlie were best mates. He’ll be gutted he’s gone.”
Firman settled thoughtfully back in his chair. “I knew Charlie Riggs’ old man. We all used to drink together in The Nag’s, back in the day. He was a firefighter too. Died on the job when Charlie was a kid. On Pete’s watch, actually. Strange how history repeats itself.”
India’s mouth went dry. Pete Davies never got over it. Pensioned out of the service less than a year later, he bought The Nag’s Head with his early retirement money. He wasn’t to blame then, and his son wasn’t to blame now.
Firman sighed and shook away the painful memory of his youth. “Anyway. What did you find out at the university outfitters?”
India raised a shoulder. Her allegiance to Gray making her cautious. “I’ve got a big head.”
Firman huffed. “That’s not much of a revelation.” Leaning forwards, he quietly added, “The fire investigation isn’t personal, India. Gray will be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”
India swallowed hard, knew from personal experience he meant it. “All right, try this for size: Shayla Begum’s the one in the funny hat. Turns out she’s some sort of doctor. The university’s not local. The old boy’s trying to narrow it down for us.”
“So why’s an educated young woman working as a care assistant on minimum wage?”
“I’ll find out when I finally get to interview her. Or is Sangrin doing that too now?” It came out sharper than she’d intended.
Firman raised a brow. “The personal comment applies to you as well. You might not like Sangrin, but he’s good at his job. If he’s got a problem with you, he’ll make your life a misery. Not your brother’s.”
She drew a deep breath. “But the arson attack on the flats was clearly targeting Shayla Begum.”
“We don’t know that for sure yet,” Firman said. “Until we do, you and Sangrin are running separate investigations.”
“It’s not much of a stretch, guv. Someone’s trying to kill her. This time last week she was under a bus. Gray saved her then as well, remember? And she was attacked in the hospital just hours after the arson attack.”
Firman wistfully stroked his beard. “I understand the nurse gave the same description of her assailant in hospital as the Preston boys gave of the Central Bank robber too, which is still your case by the way. And it remains unsolved.”
The bank robber was also the same man who abducted Nazreem Sinder from the bus stop and dumped her headless, mutilated corpse in a perverts’ play area. A strictly off-limits NCA case, India thought. “You’ve been speaking to Kate Wesson,” she said.
“Kate Wesson’s been speaking to me.” Firman glanced at his watch. “She reported in when Paul Smith took over her guard duty at the hospital this morning. They talked the firefighters down and sent them home to their families. The fact Smith and Wesson are armed with tasers helped. The nurses seem pleased with Miss Begum’s progress. Apparently, her sputum isn’t so black and they’re preparing to scrape the skin off her blisters today,” he said with a shudder. “Sounds like she’s ready for interviewing. Get it done.”
“Will do,” India said.
“Anything else you want to tell me about your visit to Sinclair’s? Anything about shopping?”
Struck dumb, India held her breath. Surely Colt wouldn’t have told him about the knuckleduster.
Firman pursed his lips and spread his hands. “No? Maybe this will refresh your memory.” He pulled a thick wodge of documents from his in-tray. “Complaint from the council. Photographs and everything. Seems they don’t take kindly to their traffic wardens being threatened with physical violence. That’s a first, India, even for you,” he said, dropping it on the desk with a thud.
India exhaled on a slow steady stream of relief. “Guv, it wasn’t like that.”
“It never is.”
“I got a ticket. The bloke was being a prick.”
“You’re getting another one. Because the man was doing his job.” To India’s dismay, Firman pulled his naughty officers’ triplicate pad from his desk drawer.
She tutted as he deftly filled the form. “So was I. You sent me there.”
“Operational advice: don’t do it again,” he said, handing her the blue bottom copy and stapling the white to the complaint. The pink middle copy consigned to join the colourful sheaves in her file.
She sighed and stuffed it in her pocket. “I’ll take plenty of change to feed the hospital meter-monster then.”
“You might want to deal with this first,” he said, sliding a folded piece of paper across the desk.
“What is it?”
“The details of the anonymous caller who phoned in the heath fire in place of Nazreem Sinder’s corpse. Phone company came back with it this morning. Of course, I should be handing it to Doug Henderson, but . . .”
Wide eyed, India looked from the information to her boss. “You’re kidding me.”
“I wish I was.” Firman steepled his fingers and pointed them in her direction. “Tread very, very carefully.”
India gave a curt nod and stood up, moving for the door. “Like mist in a minefield, guv.”
“Make sure you’re the mist,” he grumbled. “And don’t park in the pissing field.”
The Paedophile Unit, New Scotland Yard, London
Colt stormed down the corridor from Commander Hussein’s office and into his unit, to find Doug Henderson sitting on the edge of Maggie’s desk, holding court.
DI Maggie Bevan twirled her hair around her finger, giggling like a schoolgirl as the others looked on, hanging on his every word.
Colt glared at them. “Haven’t you lot got any work to get on with?”
Doug Henderson casually slid to his feet, raising his hands defensively. “Sorry, my fault. I was telling them old war stories from when we worked together.”
They’d never worked together. They’d worked in the same building once.
“My office,” Colt said, striding for the door. He stopped abruptly when he saw mountains of paper covering his desk and a lumpy hessian sack filling his chair. “What the fuck is all this?”
Nathan Sharp stood up, stifling a laugh. “It’s your mail, chief,” he said. “You’re back in the game. Fan mail to the right, hate mail to the left.”
Colt stood in the doorway, staring into his office. There was shit everywhere.
“Evidently it’s been waning lately,” Doug Henderson said, patting his shoulder. “Be thankful the pile on the right’s the biggest.”
“By a ratio of three-to-one,” Clorindar cheerfully chirped. “And there’s still one sack to sort. Do you want us to do it, or do you want to do it yourself, sir?”
“Neither,” he said. “I want it fucking shifted. Now please, people.”
Bodies bustled past him, carting away the coarse consequences of his conduct. “Thank you,” he said, settling into his chair.
Nathan stopped at the door, hugging the unopened sack to his chest. “Where d’you want us to stick ‘em?”
Colt tilted his head, raising his brows in response.
“Nuff said.” Nathan grinned as he closed the door behind him.
Almost immediately Colt’s desk phone buzzed. He pressed the intercom button and lifted his eyes to the window to see Maggie looking his way.
“Got Ryan Reynolds from The Daily Herald on line one, guv,” she said. “Shall I put him through?”
Colt stared at her through the glass. “No. Tell him I’m dead,” he said, and cut the call.
“For what it’s worth,” Doug said, settling into a seat. “I thought it was a reasonably balanced article.”
