by Bo Brennan
A quiet sigh came down the line. “There but for the grace of God, that woman could be me. Tell me her name, India. Don’t let it happen again.”
India chewed at her cheek. No one was going to give her confidential medical information without a warrant. And she couldn’t narrow down Shayla Begum’s real name from a UCL graduation list without a viable timescale. Shayla was still out there, still running. Every passing day, one day closer to her death. “Sinder,” she finally said.
“With an S or a C?”
“You’ve got the list, you tell me.”
Nisha Fisher gave a little gasp. “Sinder with an S. Nazreem Sinder, is that her name?”
“No,” India said. “That’s an alias.”
“Do you know if she’s a British national?”
“What does it matter? She’s dead.”
“She gave her age at hospital admission as twenty-eight. Female genital mutilation might have been illegal in the UK since 1985, but it also became a criminal offence for parents to take their daughters abroad for it in 2003. The chances are slim, but there could be a parental prosecution if we can ascertain her real name.”
Slim? With those dates the chances were non-existent. But at least India now knew Nisha’s true motivations – securing the UK’s first ever conviction for FGM. “I tell you what, Mrs Fisher,” she said. “You tell me where and when Nazreem Sinder had her corrective surgery done, and I’ll tell you what I know about the other woman. The one who’s still alive. I believe it’s her little sister.”
New Scotland Yard, London
Colt stripped in the station shower room, silently dropping each item of his bloodied clothing into evidence bags held out by Doug. The contents of his pockets lined up on a plastic chair. Keys, wallet, phone, knuckleduster.
“Nice piece of kit,” Doug said, picking up the brass knuckles with a gloved hand. “Could’ve come in handy today. Where’d you get it?”
“Found it this morning on the petrol station forecourt.”
Doug raised a knowing brow. “Better off with a gun,” he said. “Take the Home Office job and you’ll get one permanently. No more signing in and out and policing with permission.”
Colt looked to the NCA officer’s empty shoulder holster, his discharged weapon turned in for forensic examination while he awaited a replacement. “Yeah, it’ll come in real handy when a kid tries to brain me with a teddy bear.”
“It was him or you, buddy.”
Colt stepped out of his trousers and dropped them in a bag. “It was a priest with a newspaper, Doug.”
“It was a fuckin’ lunatic with a death wish. In the current climate, you do not run at coppers screaming ‘murderer’ while reaching into your coat.” He held out another bag. “Shorts.”
Colt slipped off white Calvin Kleins, caked with rusty dried blood. “What’s the score with Cooper?”
“What d’you mean?”
Colt’s dealings with extremists were limited, but he was loath to believe Cooper’s capabilities extended beyond brain-dead thugs dishing out beatings. “You don’t think it’s strange that a far right politician facing similar charges to a group of Muslims, just happened to be plotting to blow up their mosque?”
“Not really. The National Front have been shouting about on-street grooming gangs longer than you have. Round here, all roads lead to that mosque. You bang ‘em up, they blow ‘em up. Nature of the beast. What’s strange about that?”
Both their eyes diverted to the vibrating phone as it clattered across plastic. “All feels a bit convenient when we needed a save,” Colt said.
“A save’s a save, grab it with both hands.” Doug jutted his chin at the phone. “You only need one to grab that.”
Colt turned his back to pick up India’s call. “You all right, babe? Yep, all good this end.” He stared at his blood-covered reflection in the mirror as the lie slipped smoothly from his lips. A little lie, white and worthy, one she sounded so happy to hear. Happier still when he said he’d be leaving early. And unashamedly seductive when asking if he had time to collect a little something on route. “Of course,” he said, acutely aware of Doug Henderson listening in. “Text me whatever you need and I’ll pick it up on my way home.”
Chapter 54
Park Gate, Hampshire
Colt arrived home in fast-fading light, the last bow of sun clung to the horizon, igniting the river.
The builders weren’t joking. The hardstanding had gone – a giant cavernous sinkhole in its place. India’s car remained unmoved outside his door, covered in dust. He fought the overwhelming urge to etch ‘I’m alive. Marry me’ in the dirt on her windscreen as he climbed the steps to home.
She was hunched over the breakfast bar, exactly where he’d left her this morning. “Nice hole,” he said.
A sight for sore eyes, India spun on the stool, smiling. “Sorry, they were doing my head in. I had to send them packing. Couldn’t concentrate.”
Colt kissed her forehead. “I know, they phoned me. Said a crazy woman in a shirt screamed at them. I’ve given them the week off.”
She screwed up her face. “I can live with that. Did you get it?”
Colt nodded and handed over the envelope she’d asked him to collect from University College London.
She jammed a finger under the seal and tore it open. “You didn’t read it?”
“Nope,” he said, perusing the documents and files everywhere. A quick glance around the open plan living space revealed the television and stereo remotes remained exactly where he’d hoped, untouched. Good – she hadn’t seen or heard the news. She’d worked all day – not so good.
“This is brilliant,” she said. “Last year, only ten Asian women under the age of thirty graduated with doctorates from UCL, all PhDs. One of these names is Shayla Begum’s real one.” She handed him the single page document. “Recognise any?”
Colt ran his eyes down the list. “Nope.”
She clicked some buttons on her laptop and brought up a scanned police sketch of an Asian man with a scarred face. “What about him?” she said.
Colt shook his head as he took control of her computer and shut it down.
“What are you doing? I’m working.”
“Not tonight you’re not,” he said, closing all her hard copy files. “You’ve got your exams tomorrow.”
“I’m not doing them.”
“Yes, you are. If I have to take you myself, I will.” He fetched her boots from the bedroom. “Right now, I’m taking you to dinner.”
“Colt, I’m not even dressed. I’m wearing your shirt.” She frowned as he slipped off his tie. “Is that the suit you were wearing this morning?”
He swerved her question by hooking the tie around her waist and pulling her in for a kiss as he belted it. “Now you’re dressed.”
“Now I look like a bag of shit tied in the middle.”
He knelt down, kissing each of her reluctant feet in turn as he pressed them into her boots and fastened up the laces. “You look like the best thing I’ve seen all day.”
“What’s the hurry?” she said. “Slow down.”
“I’ll slow down when we get back.” He stood up and took her hand, leading her outside in the direction of the marina as darkness swallowed the day. “Then I’ll be taking you to bed to do that thing I do.”
Chapter 55
Thursday, 15th March
Portsmouth, Hampshire
There was a knock on the door as they were having breakfast.
Gray jumped up and grabbed the carving knife from the side, guiding Priti towards the stairs. “Lock yourself in the bedroom,” he said.
Instead of retreating she grabbed his arm. “You don’t have to do this for me.”
“Go. Now!” He shrugged her off and she quickly made her way up the stairs as the caller knocked again.
Gray didn’t move until he heard the new bolt on the bedroom door slide into place.
He wasn’t expecting anyone. Everyone who knew him would assum
e he was taking time out to come to terms with Charlie’s death. In his own way, he was. He needed what happened at Cantilever Court to matter, really matter, for the sake of Charlie Riggs’ unborn kid who would never know its dad. Even Sangrin had given up leaving snotty messages about the arson investigation, probably under threat of death from India.
He edged cautiously across the sitting room as knuckles wrapped the glass five or six times in quick succession.
Whoever it was was getting impatient.
Through the frosted glass, he could see the outline of a big man, a blaze of red behind. He braced his foot six inches from the base of the door before opening it, pumped and ready.
The postman thrust his clipboard through the narrow gap. “Sign and print there,” he said, tapping the document with his pen.
Gray discreetly slid the knife into his back pocket. “For what?”
The postman picked up the parcel at his feet and Gray squiggled a random name in the indicated box, before backing through the door and locking it again.
“It’s okay,” he called up the stairs. “Just the postie.”
Priti emerged with a tentative smile, joining him as he placed the parcel on the kitchen table next to the remains of breakfast.
She ran her hand over the address label and grinned. “Grayson, huh? Suits you.”
No one called him Grayson, if his parents weren’t children of the sixties they wouldn’t’ve either. He feigned offence as he slid the blade from his pocket. “I know how to use this you know.”
Priti flinched.
Horrified, Gray laid the knife on the box and raised his hands, backing up till he hit the work units. “I am so sorry. It was a stupid, stupid joke. I wasn’t thinking.”
He’d grown too comfortable with this woman, yet she barely knew him. Everywhere she went people were trying to kill her, and here he was acting like a psychotic prick. If he were in her shoes, he’d be picking that knife up in self-defence right now.
Priti raised her shoulders and tilted her head. “It’s okay,” she said quietly.
Gray folded his arms across his chest and lifted his chin. “You open it.”
“There might be something in there you don’t want me to see.” She casually leant against the opposite worktop, good hand in floral dungaree pockets that suited her too well. “Besides, you know how to use that,” she said, nodding at the knife, beautiful big black eyes theatrically wide as she tried not to laugh.
“True,” he mused. “My jokes are rubbish, and I don’t always say the right things or make the smartest choices, but there’s nothing I’m ashamed of, Priti. Especially not in there.”
She cast her eyes to the floor and twisted her feet in discomfort. “Shame is subjective. Isn’t that for others to decide?”
Gray didn’t like seeing her squirm. He knew exactly what was in that box, a crash helmet to replace the one hammer hands had destroyed in the graveyard trying to stab him in the head. Now he felt like an arsehole. What the hell could she possibly have done that was so bad? And then he thought about India and the shame she suffered, not through things she’d done but from what others had done to her. Things beyond her comprehension or control. It pained him that she would never be whole. “My choices are mine to make. It’s me who has to live with them,” he said. “If others don’t like it . . . well, that’s their problem.”
They stood silently in the kitchen with the box between them, knife resting on top. Gray was in no hurry to fill the silence, she’d speak when she was ready.
“If there’s no shame, what are you waiting for, Grayson?”
With a laugh, Gray slid the blade along the taped seams.
Southampton, Hampshire
The examination centre car park was packed. India stood outside the entrance doors, scrolling through the ‘good luck’ messages on her phone. The bloody thing hadn’t stopped beeping all the way there. Colt, Terri, Clare, Smith and Wesson, Nisha bloody Fisher, even fucking Firman. But nothing from Gray. His silence was unsettling, saddening.
She watched the other candidates filing through the doors in their quest to make sergeant, and her stomach somersaulted. Most wore suits, some wore full uniform, all were preened and pressed for serious business. With a dry mouth and sweaty palms, she glanced down at her ripped jeans and scuff-free Doc Martens and a smile played across her lips. At some point, before leaving for work, Colt had polished her boots. And her car.
She started as a text came through from him.
You look great. Now get your arse in there and knock ‘em dead x
India span on her heels to see the tail lights of his Range Rover disappearing up the road. With a renewed sense of confidence, she switched off her phone and stepped into the examination centre.
Portsmouth, Hampshire
Gray tried India’s mobile again. It went straight to voicemail again.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Thursday. Her exams. How could he forget?
Easily.
Priti stood dazed and trembling in his lounge, staring through the kitchen doorway. “Priti,” he said, grabbing her shoulders. “Look at me. Come away from the door.”
She didn’t respond, shock’s grip stronger than his. But right now, he needed her back. He shook her until wide, glazed eyes fluttered to his. “Listen carefully. Go upstairs. Under the bed, you’ll find a rucksack. Pack your stuff. I’m gonna get us out of here okay?”
Her nod was almost imperceptible.
“Say it,” Gray said. “Tell me what you’re going to do.”
Eyes fixed on his, she mechanically said, “Under bed, rucksack, pack.”
“Good.” He took a deep breath and nodded in agreement. “It’s going to be all right,” he said firmly, not sure who he was trying to convince – her or himself. Right now, things were far from all right. Right now, the choices he made were more important than ever. The difference between living with himself and living full stop.
As Priti shakily climbed the stairs, Gray peered out the lounge window to the street. How did they find her here? Were they out there now? Watching. Waiting. Waiting for them to panic and flee. To run blindly through the door to death?
Gray didn’t know. But he knew he couldn’t get his bike out without leaving himself exposed. On the bike he could outrun them, but with two dodgy helmets, three arms and a rucksack, it was a risk too high to take.
His hands shook as he lifted his phone and scrolled through the contacts, his most trusted in exams, dead, or too far away.
Sort yourself, Gray. It wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with a decapitation. The first time made him sick and stopped him sleeping for weeks – a biker who’d overcooked a bend on a country road before hurtling through a barbed wire stock fence. It was never pleasant, but this was the first time he’d dealt with one in his own kitchen.
He’d finally come face to face with Priti’s dead sister. Literally.
With a shudder, he pulled up the details for the local cab firm. His thumb quivered over the call button as an image of Priti in the back of the cab flashed into his mind.
Headbourne Worthy was the back of beyond. When she’d fled the hospital, how did the bastards know where to find her?
No one was following except Gray. He’d have noticed, the distance he’d kept discreet.
The texting cabbie passed Gray seconds before hammer hands’ van arrived.
Priti couldn’t have paid him, she had no money, she had nothing.
He cleared the screen and stared at the phone, gut instinct forcing square pieces into round holes.
All out of options there was only one place to turn. As soon as the call connected, he said, “I’m in deep shit. Come get me. Come alone.”
Chapter 56
London
Colt’s cafe ambush wasn’t planned. Well, that’s not entirely true. He spotted Ryan Reynolds eating alone in a greasy spoon as he passed by on the way to ambush him at his flat. The Daily Herald reporter looked like he’d seen better days. Or too many incredibly good
nights.
Colt collected a coffee at the counter, along with a copy of the arsewipe’s rag, and then pulled out the chair opposite him. “Been celebrating?” he said, banging his mug down on the table.
Ryan winced and lifted bloodshot eyes to the newspaper in Colt’s hands. “Damn right I have. You keep making me front page, Detective Chief Inspector.”
“I’m about to make you broke.”
“Ooh,” he said, pricking a chunk of grease-laden sausage and loading up with beans. “Commander Cranky instructed the lawyers again has he?”
“No. I’ve instructed mine.”
The beans fell off his fork. “And why would you do that?”
“Because you make shit up.”
“No I don’t. I’m an award-winning journalist.” Ryan took a sobering slurp of stone cold tea. “You need to unleash that legendary legal might of yours on DI Maggie Bevan. She makes shit up. Told me you were dead.”
“This isn’t the fucking playground. When you lie, people die.” Colt slammed The Daily Herald down in Ryan’s greasy fry-up. The day’s bloody front page picture of a dead priest, vied with splashed bean juice and ketchup for gore. “He’s dead because of you.”
“He’s dead because that trigger-happy lunatic in shades shot him in the face.”
“Because he came at me with a copy of your crock of shit story from yesterday,” Colt spat.
“That crock of shit was verified, thank you.” Ryan Reynolds leaned back in his seat, grimacing as he surveyed his food splattered clothes. “Nice one. You ruined my meal and my threads in one cute move.”
