by Bo Brennan
“If you’d rather have that than this,” Cara said, pointing at Priti with a ridiculously long nail extension. “You’re a sick man, Gray Davies.”
Gray set his jaw. “Get. Out. I won’t tell you again.”
“Let me tell you something, honey,” she spat, eyes still on the stairs. “He wasn’t that into you when he was fucking me the other day. You’ll regret this. I’ll make damned sure of it.” Cara turned her contemptuous glare back to Gray. All he saw was hate. “As for you, you’re a dead man walking.”
He manhandled her out the door and jammed the keys in the lock, making no one welcome, trusted or not.
“That was a surprise,” Priti said.
Gray leaned back against the door. “My ex. Sorry, didn’t know she still had keys.” A disgruntled ex was the least of their worries, but he didn’t fancy explaining how Cara knew her assumed name.
She grinned. “I thought you were gay.”
Silently stunned, Gray raised a brow.
Priti raised a shoulder. “House is spick and span and you’ve got quiche in the fridge.”
“I like quiche.” Gray grimaced and looked around his sparsely furnished lounge. “When she left, she took everything.”
“No, she didn’t. She left the best behind. You’re a good man, Gray Davies.”
“I don’t know about good,” he said. “But I am straight. You can’t keep walking around looking like that.” His eyes roamed her body, sizing her up in more ways than one. “I’m gonna get my sister to bring you some clothes.”
Priti’s face dropped. “The cop.”
“No. I’ve got two more. A teacher and a beautician. Terri, the teacher, is little, like you. She’s a good girl, won’t say a word. She’ll be at work now. I’ll phone her tonight when she gets home.”
“Three sisters.” Priti smiled sadly. “I only had one, but I lost her twice. Now I get to miss her all over again.”
Gray steered her to the sofa. “Tell me about her. Tell me what happened.”
“It’s long.”
“It’s Tuesday. Telly’s on the blink and we’ve nowhere to be until Friday.”
Hampshire CID, Winchester
“You done that interview strategy yet?” Firman shouted from his office.
“Yes, guv,” India shouted back.
“Then why isn’t it in my hand?”
India collected up her paperwork and hurried to his office, placing the IS documents into his outstretched hand.
“Thank you,” he said, pushing the Central Bank robbery file aside. “Might sit in on this one myself.”
“Interesting reading, huh?”
“Something like that.” Firman reached across his desk for his ringing phone. “Do I look like I’m taking calls, Atkins?” he barked into the receiver.
India looked outside to see DS Atkins mumbling apologetically into the handset.
“You’d better put them through then,” Firman snapped.
“Want me to leave, guv?” India said.
He shook his head and picked up the call. “This is DCI Firman. What can I do for you?”
India awkwardly lowered herself into a seat as her boss’s face paled, and then turned crimson.
“That’s right,” he said tightly. “And why would I do that exactly? I see . . .”
Sangrin appeared in Firman’s open office doorway, the air thick as he hung up the phone. “Her brief’s arrived, guv,” he said. “I’ve stuck ‘em in interview room three.”
“About bloody time,” India mumbled, springing from her seat.
“Not you, Kane. Sit down.” Sangrin handed Firman a clumsily opened envelope. “You won’t be talking to her. Her brief’s prepared a statement explaining why.”
India frowned and leaned across her boss’s desk, searching for the reason.
Firman briefly glanced up from reading. “Sit. Down.”
Under Sangrin’s watchful glare, India dropped into the chair.
It seemed to take an eternity for Firman to get through the three-page statement. Sangrin crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, eyeballing India the entire time. She knew it wouldn’t end well.
When he finished reading, Firman cleared his throat. “Have you ever been to Melody Fletcher’s new place of work?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Have you ever paid her to dance for you?”
“Naked,” Sangrin added.
India tutted, her eyes darting sideways at the sleazebag.
Firman levelled him a death stare, before returning his gaze to India. “Have you?”
Her stomach tightened. Wary of where this was going, she chose her words wisely. “I visited her workplace during the course of my investigation. She seemed unnerved by my presence. I didn’t want to arouse suspicions, so I paid her for her time.”
“You aroused something,” Sangrin sneered. “She’s doing you for sexual assault and harassment.”
The tightness in her stomach spread to her chest as her body went rigid. “She can’t do that, it’s bullshit.”
“She can and she is.” Firman sat back, tugging at his beard. He didn’t look well.
“It’s a smokescreen because we’re on to her. She staged that fucking robbery!” India snatched the Central Bank file off his desk and thumbed through the pages, holding up the opposing sketches provided by Melody Fletcher and the Preston brothers. “She gave us Mr Potato Head, the Prestons gave us Scarface. The Prestons also gave us the stolen banknotes, backing up their story. I’ve seen her in action, the woman doesn’t work for free. I’m telling you, she’s a pro, and she knows who Scarface is.”
“Guv, disciplinary procedures are crystal clear in serious sexual misconduct cases,” Sangrin smugly said. “Suspension pending investigation and a referral to Professional Standards is the only available course of action open to you. Miss Fletcher’s brief has already sent a file to the IPCC.”
Sexual misconduct. Independent Police Complaints Commission. Suspension. Flabbergasted, India slumped in her seat, resting her forearms on her knees and shaking her head. “What the fuck are you talking about? This won’t stick. It’s utter bollocks and you know it.”
Firman clenched his jaw. “I’m sorry.”
Open mouthed, India stared at him. “Guv, don’t. Please. I’ve got my exams on Thursday. I have worked my arse off for this. I’ve even been nice to that fuckwit all year,” she said, glaring at Sangrin.
“Detective Constable India Kane, I have no doubt the complaint against you is malicious and you will be vindicated swiftly,” Firman said. “As such, I require you to attend your examinations as scheduled, but I am suspending you until further notice. Your warrant card, please.”
Without saying a word, she pulled her warrant card from her pocket and threw it at him.
If they thought she was taking this lying down, they were wrong. On her way out, she punched a hole in Sangrin’s Leader Board.
Portsmouth, Hampshire
“My sister took her own life. She set herself on fire. Well, that’s what I thought at the time.”
Priti curled in the corner of the sofa, casting shadows on the wall of his lamp-lit lounge as her fingers worried at the burn dressings on her neck. In the armchair opposite, Gray took a long blink. Everyone was afraid of fire, even him – especially him – but now he understood why her fear was greater than most.
“I grieved alone and confused. Women aren’t allowed to attend our funerals, but no one attended hers – not even her husband. She was so badly burned I didn’t get to see her body, let alone prepare it. And she wasn’t given funeral prayers because she sinned against Allah.”
She said the word with such spite, Gray winced. ‘God is not my friend.’ He wasn’t surprised. Anyone who prevented you from mourning the loss of a loved one, could only be your enemy. “Was she depressed?”
“No. That’s why her death confused me. I knew she was sad because she couldn’t have a baby, but my sister would never kill herself. She was far too st
rong and faithful to ever do something like that. Shareen was a good Muslim.” She shivered and pulled the blanket around herself. “The priest said she still had faith.”
“From the church in Headbourne Worthy?” Gray asked, and she nodded.
“He’s helping me. On Friday, he’ll have everything I need to start again someplace else as someone else.”
Gray sighed. Finally, it made sense why she’d fled from the hospital to the back of bloody beyond. “All he’s doing is helping you to keep running and keep hiding. You can’t do that forever, Priti. Someplace else is somewhere the priest and I won’t be. Why are you so averse to the police? They can protect you properly and put away the people responsible for all this.”
“My sister went to the police when she realised what he’d done. They disappeared her.”
“You mean deported?”
“No, we’re from London. I meant exactly what I said – they disappeared her. Took no action against her husband, but took her from me for two and a half years. I have no idea whose body lies in the ground in Richmond, but it’s not my sister’s. Shareen didn’t kill herself, Gray. She didn’t sin against Allah.” Priti rested her weary head on the arm of the sofa. “She came back . . . she came back for me. Risked her life to save me from making the biggest mistake of my own. It’s my fault they found her, my fault she’s dead. When I ran, they followed. I led them right to her. I had her back for a whole six months, and now she’s just a ghost in my dreams again.”
Gray shifted in his seat as her eyelids grew heavy. “What did she save you from, Priti?”
“Marrying a murderer,” she murmured, and slipped into sleep leaving so much left unsaid.
Chapter 49
Park Gate, Hampshire
Colt drove the potholed dirt track home. Muddy sludge splattering his car at the climax of his three-hour journey did little to lighten his mood. It turned black when he emerged into the clearing where the two houseboats rested and found diggers and dumpers littering the hardstanding and India’s motor dumped outside his front door.
He had no appetite for a fight tonight.
Sitting in his car – engine idling, headlights blazing across the river – he could see the build progressing. The rickety old pontoon had gone. Construction cones barricaded the water’s edge where newly poured concrete held rain-slick steel struts in place. The construction crew were working hard and fast, as they should. He’d paid through the nose for rapid. Cash. Half up front, the rest on completion. They’d be gone soon. India would have her mindful peace, and he’d have peace of mind.
Wetting his lips, he angled his head towards the marina. Through the trees, he could see the lights of their bar burning bright. Boisterous boaters filled the windows. Poor company was best left to drink alone. India would shout and leave. Colt cut the engine and stepped into the fray.
Still dressed in work clothes, she lay on his couch with a cushion over her face. He bypassed her and went straight to the fridge. “Sorry the builders are in your way,” he said, secreting a DNA phial in the icebox as he pulled out a bottle of Bud. “I’ll move them in a minute.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she mumbled.
Colt frowned and uncapped the beer, moving into the lounge area where India remained motionless.
“I heard you and Commander Hussein got deliveries today,” she murmured.
He stood over her, peering curiously at the talking cushion as he swigged from the bottle. “You probably heard the fucking bollocking he gave me too. Wasn’t impressed when I said someone obviously thought he needed a hand with community relations. Another written warning and all that jazz. Prick chucks them around like rice at a wedding. The Home Office job sounds more enticing by the day.”
“You at the big house? Never.” India extended her arm, blindly patting the front of his trousers as he set the bottle down on the coffee table. “Have you got a knuckleduster in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
“Both.” Colt smiled and pulled the cushion from her face. “Are you . . . crying?”
“No.” She defiantly rubbed her wet temples with her jacket sleeve and sniffed. “I’ll raise your written warning. I got suspended.”
Colt dipped his head and stared at her, wide eyed with disbelief. “By Len?”
“Uh-huh.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and her face crumpled. “Firman chucked me under the bus. Now my eyes won’t stop leaking.”
“Oh baby, come here.” He sat on the edge of the sofa and pulled her into his arms. She’d been crying for a while, her braided hair was soaked, her eyes bloodshot and puffy. This was an India he’d never seen before. This was bad. Beyond bad. “You haven’t killed Sangrin have you?”
She buried her face in his chest, shuddering as she tried to catch her breath. “Not yet.”
Oh God, her exams. Every time she got close, the rug was pulled from underneath her. “There’ll be other exams, babe. Fuck Firman, he hasn’t even got a sergeant’s position available for you.”
“He still expects me to take them on Thursday,” she sobbed. “After what he’s accused me of.”
Colt slipped the bobble from her braid and combed his fingers through her hair, comforting her as she cried. She was still sitting her exams, and Sangrin was still breathing. How bad could it be? “Everything can be fixed, babe,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. “Want to tell me what happened?”
“Not yet,” she whispered. “Take me to bed and do that thing you do.”
“Love you? Baby, I don’t need you in my bed to do that.”
She shifted position to straddle him, tears streaming down her face. “I want to feel you inside me.”
Colt splayed his fingers across her heart. “Don’t you already feel me in here?”
She nodded and drew a deep breath, her breast swelling to fill his palm. “Will you help me sort this. Please?”
He hooked her arms around his neck and slipped his hands beneath her thighs. Standing up and carrying her to bed, he said, “Baby, you don’t even need to ask.”
Chapter 50
Wednesday, 14th March
Colt stepped from the bathroom to find India missing from his bed. She hadn’t gone far, her strewn clothes from last night remained, as did her clumpy Doc Marten boots. The fresh work shirt he’d hung on the back of the bedroom door, however, didn’t. With a wry smile, he peered outside to see her sitting at his breakfast bar, long bare legs crossed at the ankles, cuffs of his shirt rolled back as she scribbled notes on a pad.
Lord, if only he could stay.
On a sorry sigh of dismay, he pulled another shirt from the wardrobe, a suit to match, and sensibly dressed before joining her in the kitchen.
“I made you coffee,” she said. “Put it in a travel mug so you can take it to the station.”
Colt peeled back the lid and sat down beside her. “I’m driving in.”
India frowned. “You hate driving in.”
“I hate standing on platforms for hours while a robot blows up someone’s shopping more.”
She lifted her chin. “I’m all right you know.”
“I know.”
“Thanks for last night. For listening and . . . stuff.” She blushed and turned away, hiding behind a thick, dark curtain of wavy hair.
Colt reached out and tucked it behind her ear so he could see her. “Anytime,” he said, and he meant it. But he never wanted to see her that distressed again as long as he lived. “You might get to return the favour later, if the worst comes to the worst. Hussein’s dragging me and Doug to a community meeting so I can grovel and make amends.”
India’s eyes narrowed. “Why’s Henderson going?”
“To protect Hussein. To be honest, I’m not sure whether it’s from the Muslim community elders or me, at this point.”
She pushed a photograph along the breakfast bar. “Nothing to do with her, then?”
Colt dropped his gaze to the graduation picture of two happy Pakistani women. “Who’re
they?”
“The one graduating is Shayla Begum,” India said. “She got me into this mess. If I can find her she can get me out. The other one’s Nazreem Sinder. Well, that was her alias. D’you know her? I think you got her foot.”
Colt’s eyes shot up to meet India’s. He’d got more than her foot. He’d got her DNA. It was currently on ice in his fridge. He put his coffee down and picked up the photo. Stared at it long and hard, taking in every detail. Tiled walls, the side of a condom machine, the edge of a handbasin tap, the corner of a mirror reflecting a partial poster – the number 0800 and word ‘SEX’ spelled backwards. A campus toilet was a strange place for a graduation photo. “No, I don’t. But you think this lap-dancing cashier who got you suspended does?”
“I think Melody Fletcher knows who killed her, well, dumped her body at least. I’m pretty sure the same guy robbed the Central Bank last month. Independent witnesses to both events gave the same suspect description. But since Fletcher stuck her tits in my face and got me tossed off the job, I can’t prove it. Which means I can’t save Shayla Begum from him either.”
“Look like sisters to me,” Colt said. “Identify one, you identify both. Where’s Begum from?”
“For the last five months she’s been living and working in Winchester, before that I’ve got nothing.”
Colt eyed the cut of the graduation gown, foreign to his own. “This wasn’t taken in Winchester; the robes are wrong.”
“I know. The uni outfitters on the high street are trying to narrow it down for me.” She rolled her eyes. “The old boy’s lonely, he’s taking his time.”
“Have you tried the helpline number?”
India groaned and slumped over the breakfast bar. “You spotted it straight away. Took me mirrors, magnifiers and too many moments of my life that I’ll never get back.”
