by Bo Brennan
“The commander didn’t.”
“Well, he’s not a reasonably balanced man, is he?” Doug said. “He ripped me a new arsehole this morning for sending SCO19 to help you out at the mosque.”
“Join the club,” Colt said. “The amount he’s ripped me lately I’ll be shitting out my neck by the time this case is over.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, scrunched it into a ball and slam-dunked it in the wastepaper bin. “Written warning,” he said.
Doug laughed. “Nice shot. But seriously, mate, what d’you expect? You keep fucking up his carefully spun press releases. Just when he thinks he’s cleared the Muslim minefield, you go and lob in a white-power hand grenade from left field.”
Colt set his jaw. “Are you calling me a racist, Doug?”
The NCA man’s eyes widened and he raised a finger, wagging it Colt’s way. “Hey, take it easy, big fella. You know me better than that. I was referring to your very public arrest of a National Front Councillor.”
Colt sighed and propped his elbows on his desk, massaging his temples. Monday, barely midday, and he’d already had a gutful. Surely this week could only look up from here?
As if reading his mind, Doug said, “Things are about to get better for you and your department, my friend. I’ve got some info for Commander Hussein that’s gonna make him cum in his pants.”
Colt looked up and waited.
“Remember all that far right shit your team found on Councillor Cooper’s computer? Well, it included a spec sheet for a bomb that blew a couple of mosques off the map in Europe last year. Looks like our NF friends were planning a similar attack here on British soil… until you scuppered it.”
Colt leaned back in his chair and cracked his knuckles, wondering exactly how that would make his team’s lives any better. Or safer.
Doug grimaced and spread his hands. “You can smile. It’s a good news day. The Home Secretary’s going to call a press conference on Wednesday morning.”
Colt groaned. “Hussein’s dragging me to a community relations meeting at the mosque on Wednesday.”
“Yeah, I know. You were his sacrificial lamb. Now you’re off the Halal hook and Councillor Cooper’s on it. You’ll leave that mosque a hero, my friend. Well done. Congratulations.” He stood up and shook Colt’s hand. “I’ll see you Wednesday.”
Confused, Colt frowned. “Wednesday?”
Doug Henderson paused with his hand on the door and rolled his eyes. “Yeah. I’ve been assigned to Hussein. Wherever he goes, I go. The pussy needs protecting.”
Royal South Hants Hospital, Winchester
“Last bit,” the nurse said, gently turning Shayla’s head as she dressed her sore, debrided skin. “We’ll have you peachy again in no time.”
If only, Shayla thought, squeezing her closed eyes tighter, wincing at the barest touch.
“There you go. All done for today.”
As the nurse snapped off her gloves, Shayla opened her eyes. Oh God. There was a police officer outside her room. They were keeping her hostage. Heart hammering against splintered ribs, she scrambled to get away.
Hands up, palms out, the nurse blocked her view. “Don’t be scared,” she said slowly and clearly. “He’s here to protect you and us.”
Shayla swallowed hard and diverted her gaze to Ward Sister Kennedy’s battered face. Another total stranger who’d laid their life on the line for her, no questions asked. No judgements made.
Shayla couldn’t allow it to continue.
Chapter 42
Winchester High Street, Hampshire
“Take a seat, Detective Kane. I assume you bring good news today.” The Central Bank manager crossed his arms and perched expectantly on the edge of his desk, looking down at her, a smug sneer twisting his lips.
If he was expecting his personal apology, he was going to be sorely disappointed. “That depends on your definition of ‘good’,” India said. “How’s the dog?”
His brows bunched with a perplexed jerk of his head. “I haven’t got a dog.”
“That’s not what you told the emergency services operator on Wednesday, 7th March when you reported a heath fire at Bar End.”
His mouth dropped open and his hands dropped to the desk, white knuckling the edge as the blood drained from his face and pooled in leaden legs.
“I guess not so good.” India leaned forward to meet his mortified eyes. “Breathe, Mr O’Neal.” When he didn’t respond, she poked him in the chest. “Breathe.”
He finally sucked in a breath, realisation dawning as his blood recirculated, the pressure spiking in his head. Purple faced, he loosened his tie. “Are you going to tell my wife?” he gasped.
“Are you going to sit down nicely and tell me the truth?”
He staggered to his chair and dropped into it. “Yes. I’ll withdraw the complaint I made about you too.”
“Don’t bother. It won’t change the course of my investigation.”
He cupped a hand over his mouth, wiping sweat from his top lip. “How did you know?”
“Company mobile,” India said.
“But I –”
“You might be able to conceal caller ID from overdrawn clients, Mr O’Neal, but you can’t from the emergency services.”
He swallowed hard and splayed his hands wide on the desk, looking like a man resigned to resigning.
That was between him and the bank’s board of bastards. India needed him to get his shit together. “We both know why you were there,” she said. “At this point, all I’m interested in is where you were and what you saw.”
The bank manager cleared his throat. “There’s a bit of woodland that runs alongside the river,” he said quietly. “It’s darker. More discreet. We all wear masks, but there’s still a risk of recognition. Which could get awkward, especially for a man in my position.”
Or compromising, India thought. A dangerous scenario for a man with keys to a safe. “I can imagine. Go on.”
“It had been a slow night, cold. I was about to head home when headlights appeared, so I stayed in the trees and waited for . . . you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” India said. “I know why you were there, but I’ve got no idea how it works. You’ll have to tell me, Mr O’Neal. What were you waiting for?”
He looked down at his lap, his embarrassment evident. “If they’re doing it in the vehicle and want an audience, they flash their lights. If they want company, they get out.”
“You were waiting for a signal so you could go and peep through their windows while they had sex?” India said, barely able to keep the disdain from her voice.
He squirmed in his seat. “No. Watching’s not my thing.”
“Oh. Company is.” India inclined her head. “You were waiting for them to get out.”
He gave a small nod, unable to meet her gaze.
“So what happened next? Who got out of the car?”
“It wasn’t a car. It was a van. I told the emergency operator this.”
“I’m not the emergency operator. What sort of van?”
“A white one. Tall. With a side door. The engine was still running when it opened.”
The same vehicle that mowed down Shayla Begum. India wet her lips. “Could it have been a Mercedes Sprinter van?”
“I’ve no idea, I was looking up at it.” He cut a hand heavenward through the air. “The road’s kind of –”
“I know what it’s like, Mr O’Neal. I was at the scene, an hour after your very misleading emergency fire call.”
The bank manager wiped sweat from his brow with the end of his tie. “There was a fire, it could’ve spread. Under the circumstances, the fire brigade seemed the obvious choice. An ambulance couldn’t help her, and there was nothing of value I could tell the police.”
“Call me picky, Mr O’Neal, but as a police officer, I find it invaluable when someone witnesses a body dump.” India stared at him, unable to rid her mind’s eye of this sweating, wreck of a man wandering dark woods wearing nothing
more than a mask and an erection. “What happened next?”
He roughly cleared his throat. “A man climbed out the side door, carrying a naked woman over his shoulder.”
“And?”
“He laid her on the ground at the top of the bank and disappeared from view. I heard him grunting . . .”
India waited for him to continue. When nothing was forthcoming, her eyes narrowed. “In the Dogging Handbook, is that some kind of invitation for ‘company’, Mr O’Neal?”
Horrified, he hid his face in his hands, nodding his mumbled response. “I got a few steps up the bank before I realised he was kicking her. I panicked. Stepped back into the trees as she tumbled over the edge. She rolled and rolled, until she reached the plateau where I was hiding. Bits of her were missing . . . a hand, a foot. Sh, sh . . . she didn’t have a head.”
He turned in his chair and started retching.
India nudged the wastepaper bin towards him with her boot, and waited until he was empty. “Then what?”
He hugged the bin in his lap, tie trailing in his breakfast. Watery, bloodshot eyes, piteous over the rim. “He doused her in lighter fluid and put a match to her. She went up with a whoosh. Lit up the woods.”
“Did he see you?”
He carefully shook his head as he pulled his tie from his neck and chucked it in the bin with his breakfast.
“You get a good look at him?”
He nodded miserably, wiping the drool from his mouth with his showy silk handkerchief, leaving his posh top pocket bare. “He was Pakistani. Had a scar on his cheek and a lazy left eye.”
“You were that close, huh?”
“I can still smell her.” He gagged and took off his jacket, starched shirt limp with sweat.
India grimaced. “It’s psychological, the smell. It never goes away. I can put you in touch with victim support or a counsellor if you need to talk things through.”
He undid the top buttons of his shirt, tugging at the collar to circulate some air. “I’m not sure that’s a very good idea.”
“Probably not, but it’s my job to recommend it. Personally, I’ve always found counselling a bit like picking a scab. Leave it alone and it heals on its own. Different strokes for different folks, I suppose.”
His lips curled in a lame attempt at a smile. “Would you like a drink, detective?” he said, gesturing to the water cooler.
“No, I’d like more information on the dead woman.”
He swayed on his feet and gulped down an entire cup of water before returning to his desk with a second. “I can’t tell you any more. She didn’t have a head. I didn’t know her.”
“You kinda did, actually. She lived and worked locally. Her name was Nazreem Sinder. She banked here. Now I could go get a warrant and fill in all the sordid details –”
“It’s fine. You don’t need to do that,” he said, turning to his computer. His fingers trembled on the keys. Within seconds he turned the monitor India’s way. “One Nazreem Sinder,” he said. “Address in Kings Worthy.”
India shifted in her chair, resting her elbows on his desk. “That’s her. Can you show me her transactions?”
Two clicks on the keyboard and there they were.
India frowned. “Is that it?”
He peered at the screen. “That’s it. The account has no credit cards or loans attached. No direct debits or standing orders. One monthly salary payment in, from Tall Trees Care Ltd, and weekly cash withdrawals out.”
“Where’s all the bills and stuff?”
“Seems Miss Sinder paid everything in cash. That’s interesting,” he murmured, running his finger across the screen. “Every Friday and Saturday for the last five months, she’s made two separate cash withdrawals within seconds of each other.”
“Circumventing the daily withdrawal limits?” India asked.
“No. Same card, same account. Each time she’s hit the daily limit but in two separate receipted transactions, seconds apart,” he said, eyes scanning the screen. “Ah, that explains it. She had a sizeable pay increase around the same time. Must have secured herself a decent job promotion.”
Or hidden someone else’s wages amongst her own, India thought. “Can you print that out and check someone else for me?”
“Sure.” A few taps on his keyboard and the printer whirred to life. “Name?” he said, staring at a blank screen.
“Shayla Begum.”
“Nothing, sorry.” He glanced India’s way, waiting for direction. “Anybody else?”
India leaned back in her seat. “Melody Fletcher.”
He stiffened and withdrew his hands from the keyboard. “She doesn’t bank here.”
“I gathered that.”
His jaw twitched. “I never touched her.”
“I never said you did.”
His eyes darted in every direction but India’s. “I’ve never been to that club she works in, either. Not my thing.”
“Yeah. You’re a doer, not a watcher. I got it.”
He tugged at his collar as his blood pressure spiked again, twin flashes of red blooming on his cheeks. “I only looked at the pictures because the company investigators gave them to me. I probably looked at them more than I should, but only because it was hard to believe it was her.”
India bobbed her head in flaccid agreement, got exactly where he was coming from on that score. “Relax, Mr O’Neal. I just want to know where she worked before here.”
His shoulders slumped. “She didn’t. She came on a Work Programme.”
“What’s that? Like an apprenticeship or something?”
“It’s a government scheme to get the long-term unemployed into work.”
“She was unemployed before she worked here?”
He sipped at his water, condensation turning the clear plastic cup opaque. “She was unemployed when she worked here.”
India frowned. “How’s that?”
“The bank doesn’t pay them.”
“They work for free?”
“Not quite. They work for their benefits money. There’s different programmes, but Melody was here on a mandatory thirty hours a week to prevent the government sanctioning her dole money. It’s like a community payback scheme.”
“For who? This isn’t Melody Fletcher’s community; she doesn’t even live in this city.”
“The scheme covered her travel expenses. She was never out of pocket.”
“I can see what you get out of it – slave labour,” India said. “But what do the slaves get out of the gig?”
He rolled the cool plastic water cup against his cheek. “You want the official line or the truth?”
“Give me the meat, I’ll pick out the bones myself.”
“The unemployed come here and work for a couple of weeks or months, depending on the scheme. Either way, they work unpaid for between sixteen and thirty hours a week. If they do well, they might get a permanent job at the end of it.”
“And if they don’t?”
“They get kicked back to the job centre and into another scheme.”
“How many workers have been through this bank on one of these schemes?”
He shrugged. “It’s got to be in three figures.”
“And how many of them have secured a permanent job at the end of it?”
He downed the remainder of his water and clasped his hands together on the desk. “None.”
India raised a brow and stood up. That was a bloody good reason for a cashier to turn a blind eye . . . or turn them over.
“Thanks, it’s been informative,” she said. “I’ll be in touch.”
The bank manager slowly rose to his feet. “You didn’t answer my question, detective. Are you going to tell my wife?”
“No,” India said, reaching for the door. “You are. In the event of a murder trial, you’ll be called as a witness.”
Royal South Hants, Winchester
Gray parked his bike in a bay opposite the hospital entrance – hopeful some bastard wouldn’t nick his ticke
t, again.
This time he’d brought nothing. But intended to be leaving with plenty – information, answers, names.
Repetitively pumping loose change into the parking machine, he glanced across at the gaggle of dressing gown-clad smokers accumulated around the entry doors. Instead of taking the opportunity to quit while they were there, they’d dragged their drips, drains, and yellow bodies outside in a public display of defiance and addiction.
His view was interrupted by a taxi, slowing for the speed bumps to exit the hospital grounds. He glared at the arsehole driving – one hand on the steering wheel, the other texting on his mobile phone. As the taxi passed, Gray’s gaze fell fleetingly on the passenger in the backseat. Even in passing profile, those dark, almond shaped eyes were unmistakable.
Momentarily stunned, Gray stood staring at the back of the taxi as it moved further away.
With injuries too bad to be leaving legitimately, Shayla Begum could only be fleeing.
But where the hell to? Cantilever Court was not only a crime scene, it was gone.
‘Not safe,’ she’d warned. No shit. His best friend, Charlie Riggs, was among the dead.
And he wanted to know why. Who was responsible.
Leaving a fivers worth of ticket flapping in the machine, Gray Davies jumped back on his bike and started the engine.
He tailed the taxi north of the city, steadily increasing his distance as the smooth structure of the suburbs gave way to rambling pastures and the potholes of lesser rural roads.
He had no idea what he planned to do when they stopped.
Get off and talk to her? Make sure she was okay before he started demanding answers. Or sit tight and watch where she went, find out where she was bedding down for the night – after all, she couldn’t go back to that bedsit. What little stuff she had was ash under rumble.
Sitting tight worked better. Going in all guns blazing, ran the risk of her running. He didn’t fancy that.
Unless she was under a bus, she was too hard to pin down. The woman didn’t like staying in one place for long, nor giving her particulars. Everything pointed to India being right. Shayla Begum probably was here illegally. But unless the Home Secretary’s tough line on immigrants now extended to extermination, it didn’t explain who was trying to kill her and anyone else who got in the way.
