by Chris Simms
‘Is there a problem?’ Her voice was crisp, the words clearly pronounced.
‘Nothing serious. Could we talk inside?’
She considered the request for a second then stepped back. ‘The kitchen is straight ahead. Would you like a drink?’
‘No, thank you. I appreciate it’s late, so I’ll be as quick as possible.’ He walked down the short corridor, a row of recessed halogen lights dotting the ceiling above him. The carpet was beige and felt luxuriously thick. ‘Nice place.’
‘How can I help?’ The words sounded like they’d come out of barely parted lips.
The kitchen was small and immaculate. A set of knives, the blades and handles forged from a single piece of metal, were stuck to a band running above the hob of a range cooker. A Dualit toaster. One of those expensive flip-top bins with an Italian name. Jon positioned himself by the breakfast bar, one hand resting on the cool granite surface.
She crossed the room, raised a glass of red wine and looked at him in silence.
‘It’s in relation to a maroon-coloured Saab convertible. Our records indicate the vehicle is registered to you.’
Her eyelids fluttered slightly. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you use it on a regular basis?’
‘Not really, no. It’s actually more my husband’s. We live apart.’ She tilted her glass a fraction. ‘One of several things we haven’t got around to sorting out. Why?’
Jon couldn’t gauge anything about the state of their relationship from her reply. Cautiously, he proceeded. ‘Do you ever use the vehicle, Mrs Braithwaite?’
Her eyes narrowed and he could sense she didn’t appreciate her question being answered with another. ‘No. At least not recently.’
‘As in the last few weeks?’
‘Yes.’
‘So your husband would be the main user?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘You don’t have much contact with him, I take it?’
‘As I said, we live apart.’
‘Could I ask the reasons for that arrangement?’
Light suddenly caught in her eyes, causing them to glitter coldly. ‘What’s this about, please?’
Jon forced out a cough to let her know he was about to broach an awkward subject. ‘We’ve been conducting an operation recently in the Fairfield Street area of the city. Residents have been experiencing some problems in relation to working girls using the neighbourhood for the purposes of solicitation.’ He searched her face for any kind of reaction. Movement of the eyebrows, a pursing of the lips: anything to suggest a familiarity with the implications of what he’d just said. ‘Many local women have complained about being approached by kerb-crawlers.’
She crossed her arms and a tiny movement in the muscle of her jaw told him her tongue was moving around inside her mouth. Her lipstick suddenly seemed too harsh and he realised the blood had drained from her face.
‘In your relationship with your husband, did he ever give you cause for concern . . .’
She swallowed and her eyes finally dropped. Jon imagined what might have taken place between them. How did she find out about his habit? An unannounced visit like this? Money inexplicably spent? Perhaps an infection, the sort that could only be passed on from sexual contact with another?
‘Were there any incidents that might have suggested he had an involvement with the type of scenario I’m describing?’
‘You mean, did he use prostitutes?’ Disgust made her voice sluggish and hoarse.
Jon lowered his eyes. ‘I’m very sorry to place you in this situation. A maroon Saab,’ he glanced at his notebook and read out the registration. ‘It’s been spotted several times in the area, often late at night. The driver is described as tall with a thin build, dark brown hair, glasses.’
‘Is he there now?’
Jon blinked. ‘Sorry?’
‘Was he there just now? Cruising around? That’s why you’ve turned up at my house at this time of night?’
Jon closed his notebook. ‘It was earlier tonight, yes. A resident rang, giving us the vehicle registration.’
‘I’m sorry, but where my husband chooses to drive is no longer my concern.’
‘Of course. It was more about what – if anything – you could tell me about your estranged husband’s conduct when you were together.’ The shutters are coming down, he thought. She’s not going to give me anything. How can I provoke something from her? ‘Several of the females are very young.’
Suddenly her eyes were boring into his. ‘He’s approached young women?’ Anger was now in her voice. ‘Prostitutes or people who have to live there?’
‘I’m only saying some of the prostitutes are very young. We don’t know if he’s actually approached any.’
‘But you just implied . . .’
‘I’m sorry if I led you to believe that.’
She gazed at him for a second longer, the muscle in her jaw twitching once again. ‘I can’t help you. Isn’t it the normal way to talk directly with the person you suspect of . . . of a crime?’
Jon half nodded. ‘We will probably do so in due course. But with the confusion over who’s actually using the car, I wanted to check things over with you first.’
‘Well, it seems like a very odd approach to me, officer . . . ?’
‘Detective Inspector.’ He replaced his notebook and turned to the door.
‘Detective Inspector?’ She sounded surprised at his rank. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
That, Jon thought, is because I avoided giving it to you. She was waiting. ‘Spicer.’
‘Spicer.’
He could almost hear the information being filed. ‘Obviously, I’d appreciate it if you could treat this conversation as confidential while we look into the allegations. We hope no formal action will be necessary.’
‘I see.’
Is that a yes or a no, Jon thought, hesitating in the doorway.
‘Do I need to show you out, Detective Inspector Spicer?’
Eleven
Jon pushed his chair away from his desk and hung his head forward. What was I thinking going to Miranda Braithwaite’s house? And what was going through her head when I left? She had obviously been riled by my visit. But, he wondered, how much of that anger had been as a result of my presence in her kitchen and how much the result of what my questions had implied? It was the questions, Jon told himself. They had really pissed her off. Touched on something that was sordid or embarrassing enough to leave her trembling.
He lifted his head and refocused on the typed sheets of the forensics report before him. Nothing usable had shown up. The lab had managed to take a look at the hair removed from the back of the sofa, but it had no follicle attached, so a meaningful DNA analysis was impossible. All the technician could say was that it belonged to a Caucasian. No forensics. No witnesses. Jon closed his eyes. This case was rapidly grinding to a halt. The dead man’s fingerprints hadn’t pinged up with anything on the Police National Computer, so all they could do now was cross their fingers and send them to Interpol and the authorities in Russia.
Meanwhile, his emails that morning had contained a message from the Home Office. They needed the flat in Sunlight Tower for another asylum seeker, cleaners were ready to go in as soon as Jon gave permission. He looked once more at the forensics report. ‘You want to check the flat of Marat Dubinski again?’
Rick sat back. ‘Why? Forensics drew a blank, didn’t they?’
‘Yup.’
‘No need then. Buchanon’s looking for someone to get across to Castlefield. Body of an elderly male found under the railway arches.’
‘Hang on – haven’t we got enough on with trying to sort out the rape case?’
Rick visibly sagged. ‘Shit – I forgot to say. Her solicitor called, she’s decided not to press charges.’
‘What? She’s backing down?’
‘Afraid so.’
Jon looked at the shelving unit to the side of his desk. He had the sudden urge to pull the file out
and drop-kick it at the nearest bin. Instead, he placed an elbow on his desk and pressed his knuckles against his lower lip.
‘What are you thinking?’ Rick asked.
Jon said nothing for a few seconds then lowered his hand. ‘He’ll do it again, you know.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because he was too casual. You don’t enter someone’s flat and do what he did without practice. He’ll have built up to it over several attacks, mark my words. If we could have prosecuted this, other victims would have started coming forward, I know it.’
‘You’re probably right. But what the hell can we do about it?’
‘There is something,’ Jon replied, picking up his phone. ‘Log his style with the Violent Crimes Unit, especially that licking the ear business. We get those details with the VCU and, next time they crop up in an attack, we’ll be banging on the bastard’s door within hours.’ He sat back and grinned.
‘That guy. He’ll be cursing you on his deathbed.’
‘I hope so.’ After making the call, Jon turned to his computer and tapped out a reply stating they had no further need for the flat in Sunlight Tower to be preserved as a crime scene. He pressed send. That was it then. Unless a fresh witness came forward or they received an anonymous tip, there wasn’t a lot more they could do.
His phone started to ring. Two short notes, denoting an external call. ‘DI Spicer.’
‘Detective Inspector Spicer?’
Jon frowned. The voice had the type of accent an actor might use when playing Dracula. ‘Morning, how can I help?’
‘The Russian man. It was me. I killed him.’
Jon relaxed his shoulders. ‘Really?’ He didn’t pick up a pen.
‘And your name is?’
‘Ivan.’
‘And would you like to come in and sign a confession, Ivan?’
‘Yes. And I will write it with his blood. Ha, ha, ha, ha!’
Jon looked around the office, quickly spotting a detective in another syndicate beaming in his direction, a mobile phone pressed to his ear. Holding up a middle finger, Jon replaced the receiver on its cradle and turned to Rick. ‘Word’s obviously got around that the Russian case is a cul-de-sac.’
As Rick glanced across the room and also held up a finger to the detective, Jon reflected on the structure of the Major Incident Team. It was made up of eight syndicates, each one under the charge of a Detective Chief Inspector. The top brass claimed the arrangement wasn’t designed to instil a sense of rivalry between each syndicate, but a whiteboard dominated the end of the room and listed on it was the status of every syndicate’s current jobs. Jon’s eyes settled on the entry for the Russian case and its label of undetected. Not meant to create competition. My arse, thought Jon. Everything’s a bloody competition – life, everything.
He looked at his partner. ‘What did the uniforms say about this elderly guy out at Castlefield?’
‘Just an old boy in his sleeping bag. No obvious signs of trauma, but the body looks like it might have been rolled.’
‘My money’s on a heart attack. Makes them jerk about a bit, sometimes.’ He’d starting reaching for his car keys when his phone went again. ‘You want to tell Buchanon we’re taking it?’
‘OK.’ Rick began to tidy the sheets of paper on his desk into a pile.
Jon checked around the room to make sure no one else was on a mobile before picking up his receiver. ‘DI Spicer.’
‘Morning, Jon. Richard Milton.’
The Home Office pathologist. ‘Hi, Richard. Forensics didn’t find anything usable on the Russian guy. Nothing much I can tell you.’
‘Oh—’
‘You may as well put him in storage until we can work his identity out.’
‘OK. I’ll bag up his intestinal contents, too. Could be something in there to indicate the region of Russia he came from, if we get really desperate.’
‘Assuming he’s even from Russia.’
‘True. I was actually ringing about something else.’
Jon stood and removed his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘Fire away.’
‘I’ve just had a call from a colleague in Oldham. We run a thing called Chart Toppers. A top ten of the most unusual or bizarre ways people have been recently . . . well, topped. I’d proposed our Russian guy for the new number one, but some miserable sod was contesting it with an—’
‘Sorry, Richard,’ Jon interrupted, seeing Rick had stood up to try and spot if Buchanon was in his office. ‘We’re just on our way out.’
‘Right. I’m rambling. My apologies. Oldham. A body’s just shown up there. My colleague says it’s identical to the Russian.’
Jon started clicking his fingers at Rick. ‘Identical?’
‘Yes. Head hanging half off.’
His eyes were on Rick as he spoke into the mouthpiece. ‘You mean another garrotting?’
Rick froze at the mention of the word.
Jon sat back down and turned to his computer. ‘Is it on the system yet?’
‘No. The locals are just assigning it a Force Wide Incident Number now. It’ll show up any minute.’
‘OK. Where in Oldham is your colleague?’
‘It’s a place called Hedley Court. A complex of flats, apparently.’
‘Flats? Home Office-owned by any chance?’
‘Yes. Used for housing asylum seekers.’
The local radio provided a backdrop of noise as they moved rapidly along the M60, this time heading in an anticlockwise direction, passing Ashton and continuing towards Oldham.
‘More on the mystery notes turning up along the south-west coast,’ the announcer said. ‘Sam, you’ve been following this?’
‘You mean the ones people have been finding in those rubber ducks?’ the DJ’s female sidekick replied. ‘That story is ker-ray-zey!’
Rick glanced at Jon then turned the radio up.
‘Spot on, darling! According to this report, it’s the fourth letter our mystery writer has penned. It describes how six more of the poor souls stuck on the raft didn’t survive the night. Check out the full letter on our website. In the meantime this, listeners, is the latest from Elbow. And we love it.’
As the track started up, Rick was already pressing buttons on his mobile phone. ‘Come on, bloody connection speed on this thing can be shite. Here we go . . . latest headlines . . . shipwreck: new letter found.’ He double-clicked and raised the screen closer to his face. ‘Shall I just read it out?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘OK,’ Rick replied.
L E T T E R F O U R
Last night was far more hateful than our first. With darkness, the wind became very angry. Many cried in terror as waves raced at us out of the night. Never have I known such blackness, only the white foam showed as the sea fell on us. All staggered as waves swept from one end of the raft to the other. I held on to my rope and many times I vomited sea water I had swallowed.
When sun showed on the horizon, the winds finally lost strength. More have not survived the night. The two women from Basra are gone and also the men from Pakistan. Sheren, the Kurdish mother has been drowned – her legs trapped in a gap between two pallets. She lay with her face beneath the water, her son clinging to her back. As I cared for him, the man with the throat scars pulled the mother’s legs free, so she could be rolled from the raft.
When the crewman gave us numbers for rations, he counted fifteen. With less numbers, everyone received an extra biscuit. Thankfully, the sun is warming us.
Parviz saw a ship just now. It was very far off. Many shouted until their voices became cracked. Slowly, it passed from our sight.
It is almost two days since we have been standing in salt water. The skin is coming from our feet and ankles. Everyone has removed their shoes. The pain is like many cuts from a knife.
We are so low in the water, I fear that is why the ship did not see us. I thought to attach the mirrors from Sura’s and Zainab’s bags to make a signal. Ali and the man with throat scars
have made a mast with some long pieces of plastic and the mirrors are now tied to the top.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Jon murmured, glancing uneasily at his partner. ‘I’ve got a horrible feeling this thing is for real.’
Rick nodded. ‘I agree.’ He scrolled down. ‘It lists related pieces in the Telegraph, Guardian, Independent, Mail, Express and Sun.’ He blinked. ‘Most-read article on the website of Al-Jazeera, that Arab news service. The story has, as they say, officially broken.’
‘She’s smart, though,’ Jon stated. ‘Resourceful. Thinking to use the mirrors to reflect sunlight at any passing ship.’
‘Yeah,’ Rick replied. ‘She isn’t giving in, that’s for sure.’
Ten minutes later they were pulling into Hedley Court, a confusing cluster of three-storey flats, each angular building positioned slightly askew to its neighbours so the concrete path connecting them zigzagged back and forth.
An elderly lady wearing dark grey robes and a shawl over her head was sitting on some stone steps, tossing fragments of bread to a group of fussing pigeons. Her head was turned away from the birds, as if she was afraid her act of charity might cause them some embarrassment.
They got to the block containing flats to 61 to 80, where a uniformed officer stood at the door.
‘DI Spicer, DS Saville,’ Jon announced. ‘Major Incident Team.’
Their names were added to the list and the officer stepped aside. ‘Floor above. You can’t miss it.’
As they reached the first landing, a familiar smell became apparent. ‘Bloody hell,’ said Jon, twitching his nose. ‘What is it about being garrotted?’
‘Might just be a blocked toilet,’ Rick replied hopefully.
‘Now you’re talking crap.’ Jon grinned, pushing the door to the first floor open. Further down the corridor, a scene of crime officer was crouching before the type of box fishermen favour for storing tackle. For a moment, Jon thought it was Nikki Kingston. Things were still a little awkward, even though the pass she’d made at him was now several years ago. But then he caught sight of the woman’s profile and realised he didn’t know who she was. The door to her right was open.
