by Bo Brennan
Her eyelids slid closed. “My name’s not Shayla,” she whispered. “It’s Priti.”
Gray considered her for a long moment. She was fragile. Beautiful. Her full lips remained parted after making her declaration of trust. “Suits you,” he said, and pulled away before he did something stupid. He’d been doing a lot of stupid lately.
He shook himself, returned to his seat and coolly plied his fork with egg and bacon. “Who’s trying to kill you, Priti?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, returning to the table. “My family, my community, maybe even people I once called friends.”
“Why?” The fork hovered in front of his gaping mouth, suddenly his taste buds didn’t seem quite as eager for the treat. He shovelled the food in, chewing was laborious. God knows how he was going to swallow, his stomach was filled with knots.
“Because I refused to marry who they chose for me.” She hugged her cup of tea tightly to her chest, plaster cast resting awkwardly on the table. “I hate him.”
Gray pushed away his plate and reached for her protruding fingers. “You can’t marry someone you don’t love.” And sometimes you can’t marry the one you do, he thought.
“That’s normal in my culture. Families arrange your suitor, and if you agree to the union, you marry. Love comes later. It grows. Often it works well. My sister’s marriage was arranged. She loved him, really, really loved him. But she couldn’t bear him children.” She smiled sadly and sipped at her tea. “Then everything fell apart.”
“Where is she now?”
“She’s dead. Really, really dead. And it’s all his fault.” Her fingers tightened around Gray’s. “They tried to force me to marry him, but I wouldn’t, so they punished me.”
“What do you mean they punished you? I thought you had a choice.”
“My sister had a choice. I lost mine when she died. My father locked me in my room and shaved my head so no one else would want me. He beat me every day, hoping I’d relent, but I didn’t. I ran away. I’ve been running ever since.”
Gray’s body tensed. “Your father’s an arsehole.”
She pulled her plaster cast into her body, breaking free of his touch as her eyes flashed with anger. “No he isn’t. You don’t know him!”
Gray knew denial. The abused defending their abusers is what had brought Colt’s latest case crashing down. “I know he abused you, Priti.”
Her eyes welled with tears and her voice trembled. “You couldn’t possibly understand.”
He studied her through sad eyes, his chest aching. She was right. He couldn’t understand, but for reasons she could never know. The secret solely his and India’s. “My sister can help. She’ll understand too,” he said. “I think you should talk to her. She’s a cop, she can –”
“No! You promised.” She pushed away from the table so fiercely she overturned her chair.
Gray sprang from his seat, blocking the kitchen door as she bolted. “Okay, no police,” he said holding up his palms. “But we’re in this together now, Priti, and if I can’t rely on my family and friends for help you are gonna have to tell me why.”
“Because they killed my sister,” she cried, collapsing into his arms.
Chapter 47
The Paedophile Unit, New Scotland Yard, London
Maggie sat on the edge of Colt’s desk, looking on as Doug Henderson removed the fetid foot from her own. Her face still pale, she slurped sickly sweet tea. “Did DCI Firman think this could be connected to Hampshire’s headless corpse, guv?” she said.
Colt was more interested in why a National Crime Agency officer was bagging and tagging rogue body parts when the Met had plenty of forensic technicians of their own. “Probably,” he murmured. “The NCA hijacked that case too.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “What do you mean by hijacked?”
“They completely shut it down. Restricted the PM report, even moved the body to the Home Office mortuary, apparently.” At least he now knew how India had met Doug Henderson. The fact she hadn’t told him they’d been on opposing sides of an interview room table bothered him immensely.
“Smacks of the Becky Adams case all over again,” Maggie grumbled. “Sod all to do with us but we still get the shit.”
Colt’s eyes narrowed as he watched the NCA officer meticulously scouring under desks to ensure not one spilled polystyrene ball remained, before finally sealing the evidence crate.
“All done,” Doug said, popping his head into Colt’s office with the crate under his arm. “If you’ve got some anti-bac, Mags, I’ll give your desk a wipe down before I leave.”
Maggie baulked. “A wipe down? You must be kidding; I’m not using that again.”
“You haven’t got time for cleaning, Doug, you’ll be too busy talking to me. Take a seat,” Colt said, gesturing to his visitor chairs before turning his attention to Mags. “Tell Nate to dump your desk in the viewing room for now, and get stores to bring up a replacement. Shut the door on your way out, please.”
Maggie left without a murmur, Doug hovered like a fly.
Colt stared at him. “Sit down.”
“We ain’t got time for a deep and meaningful, buddy,” he said, holding the crate like a shield. “You’ll need more than anti-bac if this stays here much longer.”
“I’ll get straight to the point then. Who is she, and why are bits of her being mailed to me?”
“No idea. I was just sent to pick up some parcels.”
“Like you picked up the rest of her from Winchester?”
Doug pursed his lips and raised a brow. “Well now, someone’s been telling tales out of school.”
Behind him, through his office window, Colt could see Nathan dragging Maggie’s desk into the viewing room – a restricted access strong room within their high security unit, where paedophilic images were viewed, graded, and stored. “Are you going to give me her name, or will I have to wait until her head arrives in my post to find out if I knew her?”
Doug’s face flushed. “I just follow orders, buddy. If you’ve got questions, you need to ask them further up the food chain.”
In the background, Nathan locked the viewing room and offered Mags his seat. “I don’t want a repeat of the Becky Adams fiasco,” Colt said. “I won’t tolerate my team coming under attack for another SOCA or NCA fuck up.”
“They won’t. You have my word. I’ll pass your comments on to the Home Sec. I heard Hussein chewing you out again when I was picking up his parcel. Want me to pass on anything else to her?”
“Not really, no.” Colt straightened his tie and stood up. “You’d better get that on ice,” he said, jutting his chin at the crate containing the body parts of an undisclosed woman. “I’d shake your hand, but, well, I know where it’s been.”
Doug grinned and glanced at Maggie as Colt escorted him out of the unit. “Not where it wants to, unfortunately,” he murmured. “Maggie, are you at the community meeting tomorrow?”
She looked up and smiled. “No. Big boys only.”
“Has he been talking about me again?” Doug winked and nudged Colt with his shoulder. “Keep bigging me up, buddy, keep bigging me up.”
Colt laughed and shook his head. As soon as Doug was gone, he unlocked the viewing room door and DNA swabbed the stain on Maggie’s desk.
Hampshire CID, Winchester
“I’ve sent Smith and Wesson to Headbourne Worthy,” India said. “It’s where Shayla Begum was last seen.”
“That can wait.” Firman looked at his watch as he closed his office door. “You’ve got five minutes before Lee joins us.”
“Sangrin?”
“He’s downstairs interviewing Marjorie Simpson.”
India frowned. “I thought he was working the arson attack on Cantilever Court. What’s he talking to the Tall Trees care home manager for?”
“He’ll tell you when he gets here,” Firman said, settling behind his desk. “But before he does, I want to hear what the Central Bank manager had to say about Nazreem
Sinder.”
India dropped into a chair. “So I take it the NCA case is still off radar as far as Sangrin’s concerned?”
Firman raised a brow. “That depends on what you tell me in the next five minutes.”
“O’Neal witnessed the entire body dump,” she said. “Pakistani bloke with a scarred face got out the side door of a white van and kicked her body down the embankment. Then he doused her in lighter fluid and put a match to her.”
“What about the missing body parts? Did he see him dig any holes or toss any packages?”
“No.”
Firman gritted his teeth and kicked away from his desk. “Shit.”
India’s eyes followed him as he paced to his office window. In all the years she’d known him, she’d never seen him agitated. Not once. “What’s happened?”
He stared out onto the street below. “I’ve had Colt on the phone, enquiring about your headless corpse,” he murmured. “A severed left hand and right foot have turned up in London.”
India slumped in her seat and huffed out a breath. It was consistent with the injuries to Nazreem Sinder’s mutilated body, but a machete wielding cabbie was the last to see Shayla Begum alive. “Whereabouts?”
Firman turned to face her. “In boxes delivered to Colt and Commander Hussein at New Scotland Yard.”
“Why –”
“Closed doors are for knocking, Lee,” Firman growled, cutting her off as Sangrin walked in unannounced.
“Sorry, guv. You said midday. Should’ve known you’d be knee deep in shit,” he said, throwing a derisory look India’s way. “You want me to come back later?”
“No, sit down.” Firman slipped back behind his desk. “What you’ve got to say concerns India too.”
India craned her neck, trying to see the documents in Sangrin’s hands. “I understand you’ve got Marjorie Simpson in interview,” she said.
“Actually, I’ve got her in custody, and units out looking for her husband.” Sangrin perched on the seat beside her, keeping his paperwork close to his chest. “Guv, are you sure this is a good idea? Gray Davies still hasn’t turned up and she –”
“His friend just died,” India snapped. “He’ll turn up when he’s good and bloody ready.” And hopefully not reattached to Cara.
Sangrin set his jaw. “See my point?”
Firman sighed and stroked his beard. “Get on with it, Lee. I’m retiring soon.”
India rolled her eyes as he slowly shuffled his papers. Crossing her arms was all she could do to stop herself ripping them from his hands. “What’s the Tall Trees care home manager got to do with the arson?”
“She didn’t set the fire if that’s what you’re hoping.” Sangrin pulled a sheet of paper from his pile and handed it to her. “A witness put a white Mercedes Sprinter van in the close just before Cantilever Court went up. Unnerved them enough to take down the registration number. The plates are dodgy. The same ones were used in the Begum hit and run.”
India frowned and looked at her boss. “Okay, so Shayla Begum was the arson target.” It was hardly a surprise. “But I still don’t understand what that’s got to do with Marjorie Simpson.”
Sangrin inclined his head. “You would if you’d done your job properly.”
India kept her eyes on her boss. “What’s he talking about?”
“The Tall Trees care home sponsors migrant workers from Pakistan and Albania.”
India shrugged. “And?”
“And their work visa is attached to their job,” Sangrin said. “A job that includes over-priced accommodation for the duration of their employment.”
India stared blankly at him.
Sangrin crossed his legs and let out an exasperated sigh. “Marjorie Simpson took over the tenancy of Flat 7 Cantilever Court in December, when her mother died. Her husband removed supporting walls and turned it into bedsits so they could screw two-hundred quid a week out of visa-vulnerable foreign workers.”
“What’s that got to do with me? I wasn’t investigating the care home, I was investigating Shayla Begum’s hit and run.”
“Shayla Begum lived in that death trap. She was your case, your responsibility. You went to that care home,” he said, jabbing a finger in her face. “You had her address. You should’ve known.”
India lifted her chin. “If he does that again, guv, I’m gonna rip it off and shove it up his arse.”
“You’ve made your point, Lee. Put your finger away.” Firman pinched the bridge of his nose. “India, tell him what you’ve been doing, and keep your hands to yourself.”
She shifted in her seat. “The care home’s personnel files were messed up. Cantilever Court didn’t appear anywhere. Shayla and Nazreem Sinder shared an address in Kings Worthy.”
Sangrin frowned, bouncing his foot as he spoke. “Who the fuck is Nazreem Sinder?”
India glanced at her boss, it was his pension on the line not hers.
Firman nodded his consent to divulge.
The NCA case no longer off limits, India sucked in a breath. “The HR Manager of the Tall Trees,” she said on a sigh. “You’ve met her. Pretty girl, but you wouldn’t know that because she didn’t have a head.”
Sangrin’s mouth opened and closed, his foot stilled. “The Bar End body? The NCA case?”
“Uh huh.”
He turned his glare on Firman. “No wonder she gets fuck all solved. She’s been working a case that’s not even ours. I figured she’d at least nailed the Central Bank robber after the manager withdrew his complaint this morning, but according to the Leader Board, she hasn’t even managed that. It’s getting ridiculous. She’s ridiculous. Why the hell is she still here?”
India yawned. “Oh, the Central Bank. That’s where it gets really interesting. Nazreem Sinder banked there.”
Sangrin leaned into her space, crumpling the documents in his lap and spraying the air with spittle. “I bank there. Half the bloody town banks there. What’s interesting about that?”
India recoiled, wrinkling her nose. “Aside from the fact the anonymous woodland wanker who witnessed the body dump was the Central Bank manager, it seems prior to her death, Nazreem Sinder was laundering Shayla Begum’s wages through her account.”
Appearing perplexed, Sangrin sat back and loosened his tie. “Why would she need to do that if Begum’s a sponsored foreign worker?”
“She’s not,” India said, handing him the graduation picture of Nazreem and Shayla together. “She’s a ghost. Nazreem Sinder came into existence three years ago, and Shayla Begum doesn’t exist at all.”
“Charlie Riggs and Mrs Reynolds are ghosts,” Sangrin murmured, staring at the picture. “Whoever she is, she’s flesh and blood. And the only person alive who can tell us who killed a firefighter and pensioner at Cantilever Court.”
One side of India’s lips quirked. “Call me ridiculous, Sarge, but I think there’s someone else.”
Chapter 48
Portsmouth, Hampshire
Gray sat at the kitchen table, staring at his laptop screen.
Ordering his new crash helmet was a cinch – he always wore a Shoei lid and his head size hadn’t changed since he bought his first aged seventeen. Ordering women’s clothes was not. Millions of pages of garments in every colour, style, shape, and size under the sun greeted him. Shayla . . . Priti needed everything. Shoes, outerwear, underwear – Jesus, he didn’t even want to think about going there.
He rested his elbows on the table and hung his head in his hands. They were cutting it fine to get her kitted out by Friday, and he still had no idea where she intended to go. She’d worked herself into such a state, the only thing he could think to do was run her a relaxing bubble bath. It must’ve worked. She was still up there now.
A sudden noise stiffened his spine. In the stillness of the house he tilted his head, eyes darting upwards as he strained to hear Priti.
The noise came again. His head snapped around. It wasn’t Priti. It was the front door.
He pulled the bigges
t carving knife from the block on the worktop and crept into the lounge, exactly midway between the front door and the stairs.
Through the frosted glass in the door he could see movement in the lobby, they were already in the house. He glanced towards the stairs, Priti knew the way out from up there, all he had to do was stop them reaching her. Over his dead body would anyone be hurting her today.
As the door opened, he planted himself in front of the stairs, head down, breathing deeply through flared nostrils, ready to fight. Ready for anything that came through that door.
Well, almost anything.
“What on earth are you doing? You look like a rabid bull about to charge.” Cara stopped in the middle of his lounge, wearing a skintight leopard-print catsuit, stilettos, and a scowl.
Gray shuddered out a breath and slipped the knife into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. If only she knew. “What do you want?”
“Well, that’s just great. Nice to see you too.”
He braced an arm against the banister, blocking off the stairs. “How did you get in?”
She pouted and planted one hand on her hip, from the index finger of her other hand she jangled a set of keys.
Gray snatched them from her. “You don’t live here anymore, remember?”
Her eyes widened. “We really need to talk,” she said, making a beeline for the cushionless sofa.
Gray intercepted her. “Not right now we don’t.” He took her arm and ushered her towards the front door. “I’ll call you.”
“Let go of me, Gray. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Hearing footsteps above him, he lowered his voice to an angry growl. “You can’t just come barging in here whenever you feel like it. I want you to leave. Now.”
“Interrupting something am I?” She yanked her arm free and peered over his shoulder. “Let me guess, your name is Shayla.”
Gray glanced round, and his breath hitched.
Priti stood silently on the bottom step, short black hair damp and dishevelled, wearing nothing but one of his fresh work shirts, and a plastic carrier bag covering her plaster cast. A Hampshire Fire and Rescue T-shirt had never looked so good.
