Cut Adrift

by Chris Simms

  ‘Any spare face masks?’ Jon asked as he approached.

  She looked over her shoulder then held a couple up. ‘Be my guest.’

  Jon clamped one over his nose and mouth before examining the door frame. No sign of forced entry. He peered into the flat. Another SOCO was inside, this one wearing the full white suit. Kneeling near the body on the sofa was the pathologist. She was shining a small torch into the gaping slit that was once the victim’s throat. Jon’s eyes bounced away from the glistening wound, trying to seek something normal to look at. Fine specks of blood seemed to have settled like dewdrops around the room. He ended up closing his eyes. ‘Chart toppers got a joint number one, then?’

  He heard a rustling sound and an exhalation of breath. When he looked again, the pathologist was standing. ‘DI Spicer?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Richard said you’d probably be here soon. Same as your last one?’

  ‘Appears so. Did Richard ask you to check for hairs along the top of the sofa?’

  She navigated the line of footplates leading back to the door.

  ‘He did. Two indentations, but no hairs this time.’

  Jon sneaked another glance at the body. Both legs were thrust straight out, one arm draped across his lap, the other hanging limply at his side. ‘Any damage to his fingers?’

  ‘None. Caught him completely by surprise. Whoever did this is a very nasty piece of work.’

  Jon looked down the corridor. ‘Would you hazard a guess when he came to visit?’

  The pathologist stared at the corpse. ‘With this hot weather, it’s hard to say. I don’t know if his heating has been on.’

  ‘Let’s assume it wasn’t: he’s destitute. Living off vouchers.’

  ‘Late last night, then?’ the pathologist ventured. ‘Best I can say at this stage.’

  Probably when I was getting filleted by Braithwaite’s wife, Jon thought. ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘The person in flat sixty-five.’ She looked at the SOCO. ‘What was he? Eastern European?’

  ‘One of those countries,’ the man replied. ‘He’d arranged to play chess with the victim at the local community centre. The uniforms have taken him off for statementing.’

  ‘Hill Square nick?’ Jon asked, picturing the big station next to Oldham’s law courts.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘OK. Did the uniforms recover any ID?’

  ‘No. They had a peek then shut the door and called it in.’

  ‘Could you have a quick scout round? He should have something called an Application Registration Card. Same size as a cashpoint card, pinky-bluish colour with a little photo on it. There’ll be the Border Agency logo at the top.’

  The SOCO inside the flat raised a hand. ‘I saw some stuff. Hang on.’

  Jon had just snapped on a pair of latex gloves when the officer reappeared. ‘These were on the bedside table.’

  Taking the pile of letters, Jon examined the uppermost one. An IS90 granting temporary leave to stay in the UK. Below it was another detailing a date for his substantive interview at Dallas Court. Home Office reference T8471988. Jon scanned the letter for a name. ‘Here we go. Yegor Tsarev. Russian. Just like the other one.’ He flipped the sheet over for details of who the case owner was. ‘Well, well, well.’

  ‘What?’ Rick asked, craning his neck to see what the letter said.

  ‘Case owner for our man, here. A certain Her Majesty’s Inspector Derek Marlow.’

  ‘His caseload just keeps getting lighter,’ Rick snorted.

  ‘Doesn’t it?’ Jon replied, retrieving his notebook and phone. He turned to the page where he’d jotted Marlow’s details down. Moments later, his call was answered. ‘Morning, Derek. DI Spicer here. We talked the other day about a murder investigation?’

  ‘Yes, morning, Jon. I’ve just sat down at my desk with a brew. A moment’s peace before the doors get thrown open.’

  Jon pictured the mass of people waiting outside the screening unit. Flotsam and jetsam looking for a home. ‘Well, you can cancel the substantive interview you had lined up for a Yegor Tsarev at Dallas Court this Friday.’ He glanced at the letter. ‘At two forty.’

  Silence. ‘Two forty? Sorry, my brain’s not quite in gear, yet. I’m interviewing who at that time?’

  ‘Yegor Tsarev. Or you were. I’m looking at his body. Someone’s almost taken his head off.’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘Oh yes. Very.’

  ‘Gosh.’

  ‘Listen, can you make sure you’re free in about an hour’s time? Dig out everything you’ve got on him, we’re setting off for your office now.’

  ‘No problem. DI Spicer, when you arrive, head round the side of the building. There’s a staff entrance there. Saves you battling through the queue at the front.’

  ‘OK, cheers.’

  Alice stood in the airlock of the mental health unit, eyes fixed on the surface of the inner door. Come on, come on, she thought, stamping down on her mounting sense of unease.

  The nursing assistant finally finished what he was writing then released the lock without even looking up. Alice stepped through into an aroma of tinned tomatoes and scrambled egg. ‘Farts.’

  The nursing assistant glanced up. ‘Pardon?’

  Alice’s hand shot to her mouth. ‘Did I say that out loud? Sorry.’

  He smirked good-naturedly. ‘Just slipped out, did it?’

  ‘Yes. It was meant to be silent.’ They grinned at each other for a moment. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘You know. Busy as ever.’ His eyes went back on the form he’d been filling in. ‘Three referrals, no beds.’

  ‘Familiar story. I’m here to see Nathaniel Musoso. Is he . . . ?’ The young man waved to the empty corridor. ‘In bed, I think. That’s where you can usually find him.’

  Probably because of all the bloody sedatives that have been shoved down his throat, Alice almost replied. ‘Thanks.’

  She set off, eyes straying into the female bays as she passed them. A woman sat slumped in bed, staring mournfully at the doorway. Alice nodded but the woman didn’t seem to see her. She turned the corner, passing the row of single-occupancy rooms and crossing into the male half of the ward.

  Nathaniel was lying on his side and from the shape of him beneath the sheets, she could tell his knees were drawn up to his chest. Every other bed in the bay was empty and she saw his bottle of Ribena was almost gone. ‘Nathaniel.’ The back of his head shot off the pillow. ‘It’s me, Alice.’

  ‘Alice.’ He settled again. ‘Hello.’

  Seeing that he wasn’t going to sit up, she moved round the bed so she could see his face. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I am sad.’

  She gave a small smile. ‘Are you feeling less anxious now?’

  His eyes half closed and he answered in a flat voice. ‘They will send me back there, Alice.’

  ‘That’s bollocks, Nathaniel, pardon my language. We’ve contacted the Border Agency to express our concern. They’re aware you’ve been admitted to hospital. Nothing will happen while you’re here.’

  He remained staring off into space.

  ‘And, in the meantime,’ she said, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning forward, ‘we’ll be fighting your case.’

  ‘You cannot fight them.’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s not true.’ She glanced at the bottle on the bedside table. ‘You’ve got through that Ribena. It’s almost vanished.’

  ‘The other men took it.’

  Her sense of dismay was quickly replaced by outrage. ‘Which other men?’

  His gaze moved and she saw how the whites of his eyes were tinged yellow at the edges. ‘The big man who is in the corner.’

  She glanced over. ‘There’s no one there.’

  ‘He is watching television. He is the big man.’

  She paused. ‘Big man? He’s large?’

  ‘No, he’s the big man. The one who is in charge.’

  The big man, Alice
thought. Most mental health units developed a hierarchy of patients, with one dominant personality at the top. Similar, she gathered, to prisons.

  ‘He mocks me, sometimes. I think he took my tobacco, also.’

  ‘Your tobacco has been stolen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The shits, she thought. That was so unfair. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get you some more. You must keep your things in your locker, Nathaniel. Where they’ll be safe.’

  ‘OK.’

  She placed a hand on his head and felt the wiry press of his sparse curls against her palm. The sensation conjured images of scrubland, parched dry by a pitiless sun. ‘I’ll also have a word with the staff for you.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Try not to worry, Nathaniel. You’re not alone. We’re here for you.’

  ‘I know. Thank you, Alice.’

  ‘I’ll nip to the shop and get you some more things. Then I’ll need to get going. Is that OK?’

  ‘You are very kind.’

  As she walked back round the corner, her feelings of anger stirred. This bloody place, she thought. It’s the last place someone with mental health problems should end up. As she drew level with the first of the male single-occupancy rooms, she slowed down to glance through the small window. The young man she’d glimpsed on her previous visit was still inside, lying on his back, eyes closed. Alice’s eyes lingered on the delicate bone structure of his face, the smooth curve of his skull. He looks so peaceful, she thought, continuing round to the reception desk.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said gently, seeing a different nursing assistant behind it. ‘My name’s Alice Spicer.’ She waited for her name to connect, and a second later the man’s demeanour altered.

  He looked at her expectantly, like a waiter hovering to take an order. ‘How can I help?’

  Amazing, Alice thought. And all because I’m seeing one of the consultant psychiatrists. ‘Nathaniel Musoso has mentioned the theft of some of his personal items. Taken by the man in bed one, bay number three.’

  The assistant sighed, reaching for a plan of the ward. ‘Tony Garrett. We should fit a revolving door at the entrance. This is a second home for him.’

  Alice thought about the Salford Tool for Assessment of Risk. Every person admitted on to the unit was assessed according to five categories: violence, self-harm or suicide, serious self-neglect, behaviour, exploitation and vulnerability. ‘Surely Nathaniel scored highly for vulnerability on the STAR test?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘Could he not be allocated a single room, then?’ The assistant chuckled. ‘He can join the queue.’

  Should have guessed, Alice thought. ‘What’s his care plan, by the way? Is he on much medication?’

  ‘Antidepressants and selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors to deal with his PTSD symptoms.’

  ‘He’s been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder?’

  ‘By the on-call psychiatrist when the police brought him in. Emotional numbness, enhanced startle reaction.’

  Alice thought of how Nathaniel had jumped when she’d said his name. It would help in their fight to stop him being deported.

  ‘Cognitive behavioural therapy?’

  ‘If he’s here long enough. Psychiatrist rounds are tomorrow. In fact,’ he continued, stumbling slightly over his words, ‘isn’t he under Phillip Braithwaite?’

  He didn’t mention that he was actually overseeing Nathaniel’s care plan, Alice thought, making a mental note to broach the subject with Phillip. ‘Oh – the single-occupancy room at the male end of the corridor. What’s the score with the patient in there?’

  The nursing assistant made a sour face. ‘You know what? Your guess is as good as ours—’

  The panel on the wall with the floor plan of the ward displayed on it suddenly started emitting a rapid series of beeps. The assistant peered at it for an instant. ‘Staff member needs assistance in the wash room.’ He started round the desk.

  ‘How do you mean?’ Alice persisted, stepping out of his way.

  ‘File’s been mislaid by the Royal Liverpool University Hospital.’ He hurried off, talking over his shoulder as he went. ‘That or it’s been lost in transit. We’re not sure which.’

  Twelve

  Jon half mounted the pavement of the road running down the side of Reliance House and slapped a police notice on the dashboard. As they got out of the car, a sudden shower started peppering the dry tarmac around them. Jon hurried across to the side entrance, feeling a pattern of cold dots spreading across the thin fabric of his shirt.

  A couple of men stood within the doorway, cigarettes in their hands, looking up at the clear sky with surprised expressions.

  ‘We’re here to see Inspector Marlow,’ Jon announced. ‘Can we get in?’

  ‘Doors are open,’ one replied, glancing up once again. ‘Where’s that bloody rain coming from?’

  ‘Wherever it is, I’ll take it,’ his colleague answered. ‘My garden’s more like the Gobi bloody desert.’

  Jon pushed open the black glass door and they found themselves at the inner desk, the main waiting room immediately to their left. ‘Hello,’ Jon said to the security guard. ‘We’re here to see Derek Marlow. He’s expecting us.’

  The man nodded then reached for a phone. ‘Derek?’

  Jon almost winced as the ‘k’ rasped across the roof of the man’s mouth.

  ‘Couple of gentlemen to see you down here.’ He hung up. ‘He’s on his way.’

  A tiny man and woman emerged uncertainly from the entrance lobby, dark brown faces etched with anxiety. They stared at Jon and Rick in silence.

  Jon stared back until he realised that they were awaiting instructions. He glanced at the member of staff, who noticed them for the first time.

  ‘In there,’ he jabbed a thumb at the doors to the main waiting area.

  As the couple continued through, the door by the side of the desk opened with a loud click. Marlow beckoned to them. ‘Hello again.’

  Climbing the stairs to the first floor, the Border Agency officer glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Do you think the same person killed the man you found this morning?’

  Jon tilted his head. ‘Same technique. Which is, to say the least, unusual.’

  The inspector swiped the lock at the top of the stairs and they made their way back to his desk. ‘Here’s the file. Not a great deal more than on the first victim, to be honest. I’d processed him, set a date for his substantive interview and was just about to run a few background checks.’

  ‘He said he was from Russia,’ Rick stated, taking a seat.

  Marlow nodded. ‘He did.’

  Remembering how Rick had been cold-shouldered on their previous visit for not supporting any sports team, Jon raised an eyebrow at his partner. Looks like you exist again. ‘What else did he say?’

  Marlow ran a finger over the top sheet. ‘Yegor Tsarev. Worked for a business supplying equipment to one of the big gas companies out there. The owner of said gas company currently resides in a rather large flat in Mayfair. He has claimed political asylum and President Putin is currently demanding his immediate extradition back to Russia.’

  Jon sat up. ‘So the guy’s story is actually true?’ Finally, he thought. We’ve got something to run with.

  Marlow gave a shake of his head. ‘Don’t get your hopes up. It’s true the man resides in Mayfair, along with several billion dollars.’

  ‘Something tells me,’ Rick said, ‘he didn’t go through any screening interview in this place.’

  A dry chuckle escaped Marlow. ‘He probably flew in on a private jet and was waved straight through to his London residency.’

  ‘What about Tsarev?’ Jon asked.

  ‘Well, the company name he gave me is real enough. But they have no record of a Yegor Tsarev in any department.’

  ‘So, it’s all bullshit,’ Jon sighed, sitting back.

  ‘Seems so. I was going to have him pulled too – next time he reported into Dallas Court.’

/>   Jon picked at the corner of Marlow’s desk. ‘Anything show up on the fingerprint check?’

  ‘No – if it had, I wouldn’t have given him temporary leave to remain.’

  Pressing his palms together, Jon ran his fingertips down both sides of his nose. Two Russians, two garrottings, probably within hours of each other. Someone knew the pair was in the country, along with their exact whereabouts.

  ‘When did you interview these two men?’ Rick asked. ‘Was it on the same day?’

  Marlow nodded. ‘They were brought in together. From the hospital.’

  ‘From the hospital?’

  ‘Yes – that’s where they’d been first taken when the fishing boat docked.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Jon said, sitting up again. ‘Tsarev was also rescued by the trawler that found Dubinski?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘What was the story again?’

  Marlow consulted his notes. ‘An unidentified ship from St Petersburg set them down in a lifeboat. Somewhere in the Irish Sea, probably. But they’d had problems – the tide carried them away from the coast, not towards it and they’d drifted for several days before the trawler found them.’

  ‘This sounds like the bloody story in the press at the moment,’ Jon said incredulously. ‘It was a lifeboat they were in, not a raft?’

  Marlow smiled. ‘No, a lifeboat. And no mention of rubber ducks, either. They were in quite bad shape though, I gather. Hence the overnight stay in hospital.’

  ‘This lifeboat,’ Rick said quietly, eyes on the floor. ‘Were there any other Russians rescued from it?’

  Jon glanced at Rick. Good point, mate. His eyes moved back to Marlow and he saw the other man had stiffened ever so slightly. The inspector’s eyes dropped to the file and he tried to clear his throat. Jesus Christ, Jon thought, there were others, weren’t there?

  Marlow pored over his notes. ‘Yes. Two others. Four were brought in by the trawler.’

  Jon almost spread both palms in a gesture of incredulity. We ring you to say a second Russian claiming asylum has been garrotted. You didn’t spot a pattern emerging here? ‘Who are the other two?’