by Liz Mistry
There was an A4 envelope sitting next to her computer, so before bringing up Peggy’s file, Nikki ripped it open and shook the single sheet of paper onto her desk. Puzzled for a moment, she frowned, for this wasn’t a letter. Instead, what Nikki was looking at was a photocopied newspaper article. She shook the envelope again, to dislodge anything else it might contain, but nothing came free. Stuffing her hand in the envelope, she wondered if an accompanying note had got stuck inside, but again found nothing. The headline of the copied article with its accompanying photo alerted her to its content. Prostitute murdered in drug-related crime! The photo accompanying the article that had been sensationalist enough to make the front page of the Bradford Chronicle the previous week, was Peggy Dyson’s mugshot. In it she looked like a depraved psychopath, which was probably exactly what Lisa Kane, the journalist responsible for the article, had aimed for.
An annoyed tut escaped Nikki’s lips. She was working the Peggy Dyson case, but despite her best efforts had got nowhere. Now here was some idiot taunting her for her failure.
Nikki’s mum had been upset when she saw the photograph and read the uncharitable venom spewed onto the pages. Venom that would no doubt make some Bradfordians unsympathetic to the plight of rough sleepers and their associated problems. This was irresponsible journalism at its worst and it was what Nikki had come to expect of her long-standing adversary Lisa Kane.
In anger, Nikki crumpled the article up and tossed it in the bin, not wanting to look at it a moment longer, and instead focused on her other correspondence. However, whilst responding to each, the absence of an accompanying note with the article niggled her. Why would anyone send her that particular article? The more she thought about it, the more she realised that only someone who was aware of her tenuous personal link to Peggy Dyson would bother. More to the point, only someone with malicious intent would send it anonymously – but who?
Her first thought went to Lisa Kane, the reporter responsible for the article in the first place. She and Lisa were definitely not friends. Nikki had no doubt that Lisa Kane had dodgy friends she could get to find out stuff – her sort always did. She wondered if she’d somehow got wind of her family’s links to Peggy Dyson and although she would rather keep her past where it belonged – well behind her – she was past the stage of allowing a low-life like Kane to intimidate her. As best she could, Nikki had pushed the somewhat unsympathetic article to the back of her mind and got on with her job.
Grabbing a pair of latex gloves – snazzy lilac ones according to Saj – she scooped the article out of the bin, and mindful of the fact that she’d probably contaminated any forensic evidence already, shrugged. Probably won’t send it off to the lab anyway. But best to keep it – just in case.
Laying it on her desk, she smoothed it out, then photocopied both the sheet of paper and the envelope before securing the originals in evidence bags and shoving them in the bottom drawer of her desk with the copies. She then decided to put the matter to the back of her mind.
Chapter 5
I expected to feel different – maybe guilty or something. I mean one day you’re going about your business as usual, saying hi to people, doing your job, and then the next you’re having to deal with shit and make decisions you shouldn’t ever have to make. Finishing off the old skanky cow wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be. I mean it was time-consuming – but that was because I had trouble identifying Peggy Dyson initially. The actual act was easy enough in the end – enjoyable even. The only downside was that I couldn’t share it with her. Couldn’t tell her what I’d done to protect her. Couldn’t show her that I was the one that she should respect, the one she should love – not him. What the hell has he ever done for her? Drained her, made her sad, made her ill – that’s all.
I slam my fist onto my thigh. That’s enough isn’t it? He’s made her ill. She’s so frail now and it’s all his fault. If it wouldn’t kill her, I’d finish him off completely. Instead I have to clear up all this crap. Makes me mad that she can’t see what I’m doing. The sacrifices I’m making. Had to give up on a night with a pert little 14-year-old last week. I’m not complaining – not really. It’ll all be worth it in the end. Still, I gave it a few days to make sure there was no fallout. No comeback on me.
This next one won’t be as easy. It won’t be a quick in and out like before. No, this time I need information and it’s information that only he can give. He’s the one who’s been researching this shit. He’s the one been mouthing off to all and sundry. Now, before I end it, I need to find out who else I should add to my list. I’ve got a couple of names already, but I want to make sure I get them all. Can’t take any chances on this. Too much at stake. Glad I watched all those CSI programmes now. I took care of Dyson in a rush, but I’ve had time to think now. Time to work out all the precautions I need to take. I made a big mistake on the last one – hadn’t realised there’d be so much blood. Good job it was dark.
This time I’ll be prepared. Easy enough to buy one of them burner phones and leave my own phone switched on at home. No point in risking the police being able to trace it and link it to me. Changing the reg plate on my van will be easy too and I’ll just swap it back when I get home. I’ll snatch another plate from a scrapyard and when I get near to Cambridge I’ll put that to good use too. I’ll steal a van; change the plates and bongo. No point in leaving any forensic evidence in my own van. I smile. I’m well satisfied with my forensic measures. It takes time plus a lot of thinking time but it’s worth it. Bet that tosser Liam couldn’t have planned it any better, and now that I’ve had my trial run, I’m sure I’ve covered all my bases.
Slouched in the Costa coffee, I watch the passers-by through the smeared windows. I don’t much like Cambridge. Seems a bit too snobby to me. Mind you, this area is definitely not. Already seen two beggars, one with a dog, sitting in the street – can’t look after themselves, but they have a bloody dog, yapping at folk as they pass by. It’s not right. Not when the rest of us poor fuckers have to do hard graft to get by. Bloody nuisances the lot of them – just like that Peggy Dyson. A waste of space, no loss to society, them lot.
I take a slurp of my vanilla latte and then grin as another thought occurs to me. Maybe when this is all done and dusted, I’ll do a bit of community service by getting rid of some of the parasites for free. Yeah, I won’t even charge anybody – free and gratis – my service to humanity.
I’d expected to see a whole load of posers wearing them black university gowns with them stupid hats. Liam had told me not to be a twat – cheeky bastard. Just cause he’s all up with the posh gits. Hobnobbing with the hoity-toities. Yeah, Liam Flynn could do with being taken down a notch or two. Mind you – that’s exactly why I’m here.
A quick glance at my phone and I’m off. Need to intercept him at just the right place. I’ve already sorted it. Reconnaissance they call it. Well, I’ve reconnoitred the area and found the only freaking blind spot in the whole of Cambridge – okay, so that’s a slight exaggeration, but it’s the only blind spot on his regular route … and I need to time it when a double-decker bus is parked up at the stop. I’ve already parked up the stolen van. Changed the plates and all – I’m not a fool. I’m not taking chances.
He’ll come with me. I know he will. He’s angry right now. Hell, maybe he has a right to be, but that doesn’t mean he can go mouthing off, causing grief to everyone. Don’t understand why he can’t just keep his fat trap shut. If he did, none of this would have happened. It’s all his own fault and I’m fucked if I’m going to feel guilty about sorting out the mess he created. No damn way!
*
Never thought you could feel the blood pumping through your veins like you’re gonna pop a blood vessel. Not till now anyway. I’d decided that it was better to coax the details out of him, so that’s what I did. Pretended to be on his side. Pretended to agree with him and bit by bit he spilled it all. Sucker! For all his brains he was bloody thick as shit. His fancy education didn’t save him from t
he same fate as Peggy Dyson.
He struggled a bit at first. But I’m bigger than him. Said he works out at his poncey gym, but I reckon all he did was go there to eye up the other guys. I might need to research ways of drugging the next one – maybe chloroform or summat. The internet will tell me. The initial wound didn’t slow him. Must have miscalculated that first blow – it were meant to give me the upper hand, but instead he turned and swung at me. He didn’t have a weapon, but as I was all pumped up on adrenaline I just let loose. Each thrust made me harder. The taste of his blood as it spatters onto my lips is oddly erotic. Sweat drips from my forehead, and then with my last ounce of energy I send a final thrust through his chest and, with a judder, I come … Made a bit of a mess in the van, but what the hell – it’s not mine, so who cares. The lay-by on the A605 was deserted. Well it would be, at three in the morning, so dumping him was easy. Didn’t even have to bother about the mess in the van.
I drove back up North, dumped the stolen van where it wouldn’t be found for a few days – why these posh golf clubs don’t have CCTV covering the entire car park puzzles me – but I took advantage of it anyway.
Now all I need to do is wait and see what happens. Bet that dozy bloody partner of his will report him missing – aw well, nothing I can do about that. Just have to see where it all takes us.
Chapter 6
Freddie Downey in his stained, faded T-shirt and worn blazer, wearing his baseball cap backwards, was given a wide berth by people around him. He merged in with Bradford City Park’s great unseen and that suited him just fine. Blending in had been his aim today and he hadn’t had to do much to his overall appearance to make it work. Greying stubble and scruffy clothes tended to be enough. He sat on a bench next to an elderly woman in an M&S matching outfit, who reeked of expensive perfume. He didn’t bother to silence his satisfied chuckle when she screwed up her nose and edged further away from him before finally hefting her bags up and moving to the empty bench nearby. He could have chosen that bench himself, but there was something so satisfying about annoying silly old cows.
From his prime position he observed his surroundings. Well, well, well. Bradford was coming up in the world – who’d have thought it? Gone was the manky old Central Library building, replaced by a swanky new one right in the heart of this bustling little place they called City Park. All posh fountains with screaming kids playing in them, Wetherspoons filled to the ginnels with Bradford’s all-day drinkers, quaint cafés nestled under the watchful gaze of City Hall, and tucked round the corner was Sunbridgewells – yep, things had changed in his absence.
But for all the changes, Bradford was still a city of contrasts – an architectural smorgasbord of modern concrete buildings juxtaposed with the Gothic-style town hall and Victorian builds, an ethnic melting pot representing a range of races and languages, an economic divide illustrated by the disparity between M&S lady, the rough sleepers hovering on the fringes and the cheap and cheery working-class families gathered round the Big Screen watching some crappy cartoon or other. Bradford: the lost city rising from the ashes like a crass, flamboyant phoenix. His meandering thoughts amused him. He was a people-watcher – always had been – and it was particularly satisfying to observe, from the distance of time, the city he once knew so well.
Today though, he had one particular focus, one special person to monitor. From his position in the warmth of the sun, he watched his prey inside the Starbucks, chatting to the barista, laughing and smiling. Little did she know that he’d be wiping that smile off her face before too damn long. For the first time in twenty-five years, he could see her – so close he could almost smell her perfume. He’d waited for this chance for a long time. Many years with only the thought of seeing her to keep him going. Hard years. Cold years. Years where the softness of a woman’s body was all he craved. He’d sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, hard as wood, the scent of her in his nostrils, the feel of her on his body – only to have it drift away, replaced by the smell of stale farts, snoring and guards and screaming.
‘Layla, Layla, Layla. What am I going to do with you?’ He spoke the words under his breath. For what seemed like forever, he’d kept an eye on her from a distance. Reports and photos hadn’t done her justice though. The years had been kind to her. Smartly dressed, she hadn’t succumbed to that middle-aged spread many women of her age developed. Hair still black although shorter than he remembered. Bet she could still give a man a good time – she was made for it. Ripe for the picking then and damn well still ripe for the picking now. Busy woman, she was – always off somewhere, always chatting to folk – popular, with the men too. Wonder if they knew that in the past she’d slide her mouth between their legs, those lush lips of hers all over their dicks for little more than a fiver? Or spread her legs in an alleyway off Thornton Road for a tenner. Bet they didn’t. Bet the whore kept that secret. Trying to act all respectable now – her and her damn kids.
That had been his mistake – letting her keep the brats. He should’ve got rid of them soon as she told him she was up the duff, but she tricked him. Bitch! Promised she’d do anything for him – well that was a fucking lie, wasn’t it? Mind you, he taught her a good lesson or two then. Didn’t work though, she still managed to push those two little scrotes out, screaming and yelping like piglets ripe for the slaughter.
He should have punched her in the belly harder – till she bled the little fuckers out. He thought when she fell with the second one that they’d tie her to him. Didn’t fucking give her credit for being a good mum. From the start, the bitch put them before him. He should have known after the first one came. The way she pandered over it – little fucking creature – smelly and snotty and loud. Then the second came along and again the witch convinced him to let her keep it.
‘Go on. They’ll be company for each other. Look after each other and then I won’t be so distracted.’
He slammed his fist onto his thigh and lit up another cig. Well, she’d better laugh while she could, for when he finally made his move the last thing she’d be doing was laughing – her and those fucking sprogs of hers. They’d all pay. Especially the older one – yep especially that one.
Thursday 17th September
Chapter 7
‘Early this morning the body of a young man, later identified as 25-year-old Liam Flynn, was discovered in the field behind me, not far from this lay-by on the A605 near Peterborough. It seems clear that the death is being deemed as suspicious although no one from the Cambridgeshire constabulary has yet made a statement. Flynn was first reported missing by his partner, Daniel Lammie, two weeks ago. Behind me the crime scene investigators comb the area for clues to the death of this young man; a Cambridge University researcher with a bright future ahead of him, which has been cut so very tragically short …’
Nikki Parekh’s attention was drawn to the large-screen wall-mounted TV, which was on mute, but with subtitles, when she saw the subheading from the corner of her eye. Now that the young lad’s body had been discovered in suspicious-looking circumstances, she wondered if it was, perhaps, time to confide in her partner DC Sajid Malik. Not that she had anything to confide … not really. A couple of anonymous letters containing an online newspaper report from two weeks ago about Peggy Dyson’s murder, the one with the clipping from a news report relating to the investigation into the murder of the Cambridge lad that was on the news right now and another missive this morning containing extracts from a diary. None of it necessarily directly related to her, as far as she could determine. Still, it made her nervous.
Ignoring the hubbub of Saj attempting to drum up support for the bet he was trying to set up for the detective inspector interviews that were finally being held today, much to their boss DCI Hegley’s disappointment, Nikki continued to watch the news report. They were back in the BBC newsroom now with two news presenters talking about the case.
‘… whilst DCI Jones from Cambridge CID is keeping remarkably quiet, the discovery of a body will lead the investig
ation in a new direction.’
‘Of course, that’s inevitable. Already the media have been speculating about the involvement of Flynn’s parents, from whom he was reportedly estranged and who have declined to comment. In such circumstances often the partner is scrutinised to eliminate him from the investigation …’
A series of images of Flynn’s family and his partner made the background to the interview and Nikki was all too aware of the tension along her shoulders as the two reporters continued with their uninformed hypotheses. Gosh, the media truly were a nightmare.
‘Hey, Nik, wakey-wakey. You gonna make a guess as to what sort of DI we’ll end up with?’ Sajid bounced in front of her. His turquoise shirt was completely crease-free with a tie that picked out the exact same shade of blue in its pattern.
The past few months had been hard for the team, dealing with the aftermath of the organised modern-day slavery ring they’d busted before Easter, so she was well aware that Saj deserved a bit of light relief. And the distraction of the detective inspector interviews for the entire squad, including her partner DC Sajid Malik, had provided it. However, for Nikki it was unbearable. Not only was she being teased for not going for the job, but Saj was running this damn sweepstake, guessing which candidate would get it: a high-flyer, fast-tracker fresh from university and green to the gills; an uppity git from some posh area who had no idea about Bradford; someone from another station in the district with a hard-on for tough policing and intent on setting their minions to be tough on their behalf; some upstart from inside the station full of good intentions, but with no balls. The list went on ad infinitum and was making Nikki more and more nervous.
She hated change and dreaded the necessary “getting to know you” conversations that were inevitable with a new team member. Unlike Saj, she clammed up when it came to other officers, and she’d more than likely put her foot in it and insult them in some way. She’d been acting DI on the chilling modern-day slavery operation, which had rescued hundreds of victims as well as having far-reaching consequences for the City of Bradford. The mere thought of it now deepened Nikki’s frown. Her boss DCI Archie Hegley was annoyed with her for not taking the job on full-time, but Nikki hadn’t wanted it. She had a family and although the extra money would have come in handy, she was too aware of how much her job already impacted on them. Besides, she was better with just the one partner. Heading up an entire team would force her to talk to other officers – be part of their lives – be approachable, and Nikki wasn’t up for that. She didn’t know how to be that person.
