DEAD WRONG a gripping detective thriller full of suspense

by Helen H. Durrant

  “She’s not been well today. Her legs are bad again,” Monika warned. “They’ve been bandaged, and she’s grumpy and a bit confused. I asked the doctor to see her, and he left some medication.”

  “Her legs?”

  “Cellulitis, Tom. It’s common enough in the elderly when they’re sitting around a lot.”

  “Confusion . . .” He shook his head. “She used to be as sharp as a pin.” This was something he found hard to adjust to. He was aware that she was forgetting things more and more; he just didn’t want to admit that she was slipping further away from him.

  “We’ll keep an eye on her, don’t worry.” Monika was reassuring. “She’s in there.” She nodded towards the sitting room. “Watching the telly and drinking tea.”

  “Look, I might be busy this week.” He was paving the way for his probable absence. “I’ll arrange something for your birthday though. I won’t forget, I promise. A meal at that Italian, the one that does the wonderful Carbonara?” he suggested hopefully.

  “Suits me. Perhaps you’d consider staying over at mine too. Give a girl a proper treat.” She winked at him.

  Calladine bent down and brushed her lips with his own. He smiled and nodded, but he’d have to think about that one. He knew already he’d make some excuse and duck out of it. He didn’t know what it was, but since they’d rekindled this relationship, he’d kept Monika very much at arm’s length.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t like her, because he did. At one time he’d positively lusted after her. But that was a long time ago, when she’d been married to Ruth’s brother. Perhaps it had been a case of simply wanting what he couldn’t have. These days she was more of a friend, a comfort, even a sounding board. That was no basis for a relationship. He knew his faults, and relationships with women were high on the list. He’d been married and divorced, both before his twenty-first birthday. He’d made mistakes, always put the job first, and he doubted he could change now.

  They were sat in a semi-circle, in huge high-backed chairs with footrests. His mother sat at the end, so he was able to crouch down beside her.

  “You’re not so good . . .” He reached for her hand. She didn’t respond, didn’t even acknowledge his presence. As Monika had said, her legs were bandaged, but she seemed comfortable enough.

  It had happened quickly. One day she’d been running her own life and doing her best to organise his, then, as if a switch had been flicked, she was here. As care homes went, this place was fine, more than fine, with the added bonus of having Monika in charge. But it wasn’t how he’d imagined his mother would end up.

  He patted her thin, bony hand. Her skin was like paper, wrinkled and covered in brown stains. Age: he still couldn’t get his head around it. When had this happened, when had things changed so much?

  * * *

  Kelly Griggs stirred, groaning into the darkness. She flicked the switch on the lamp by her bed, and cursed as the bulb blew. She rolled over, groaned again and clamped her hands to her ears in self-defence. The tiny bedroom was filled with a crescendo of noise, that high-pitched wail that only a baby was capable of making. It was the sort of wail that demanded instant attention.

  The young girl rolled across the bed and rubbed her tired eyes. In the Moses basket beside her on the floor she could just make out the hungry bundle wriggling with impatience as he thrust tiny fists into a sucking mouth. Hungry as he was, Jack would have to wait until she sorted his milk. Kelly felt around on the cabinet beside her bed for cigarettes and her lighter.

  She’d have to see to him, she decided, lighting a cigarette and moving carefully in the dark bedroom towards the kitchen. Very soon the inhabitants of the entire deck would be awake and on her back, and she couldn’t risk that. Her neighbours were difficult enough to get on with as it was.

  It was the middle of the night. There was just no way she could keep this up, the same exhausting routine, week after week. She stumbled across the floor and heard a knock, knock from the adjoining flat.

  “The old biddy’s awake now,” Kelly told the screaming babe. The elderly woman next door was using her stick to rap on the wall, trying to stir her into action.

  “For God’s sake feed him, Kelly!” The walls must be made of cardboard, she thought, running a hand through her long, dark hair in exasperation.

  “You’ve got the whole deck up now, you lazy cow!” There was a final thump on the wall.

  She wasn’t lazy, she was tired, exhausted by the drudgery of it all. She had an infant to care for, and a new job to hold down. Ice had said he’d help. He’d promised her the day Jack was born that he wouldn’t let her down. That was three months ago, and she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’d seen him since.

  Kelly lit a gas ring in the small kitchen, flicking on the light as she went. She poured the contents of a feed she’d made earlier into a pan for it to heat, while she lifted the distraught infant from his bed.

  She heard a knock, a rap at her front door. Bloody neighbours were taking this too far. Young babies cry, there wasn’t anything she could do about that.

  “Bugger off!” she screamed, as she rocked Jack in her arms. Moments later she had transferred the milk to a feeding bottle and stuck it in his mouth. He was quiet at last. Kelly would give whoever had come to her door a right roasting. She was in the mood.

  But the deck corridor was empty and the surrounding flats were dark and quiet. Whoever knocked had legged it sharpish. Then looking down, she saw it. A grotty-looking carrier bag, tied up with pink ribbon and with a note attached, had been dumped on her doorstep.

  Someone playing tricks; something loathsome left as payback for the noise? She was tempted to put it straight in the bin, but instead Kelly picked the thing up and plonked it on the table, undoing it with her one free hand.

  What she saw made her blink in disbelief. It wasn’t something obnoxious after all, not by a long chalk. Someone had left a bag full of money on her doorstep. A bag full of money tied up with pretty pink ribbon, she thought, feeling the smoothness of the fabric against her fingers.

  She tipped it onto the table, watching it roll around in small tubular bundles fastened up with elastic bands. Ice, she thought immediately. That was how he kept his money. He’d roll it up then hide it on his body, in his pockets, and even down his socks.

  Why? Why would he do this? Why not just knock and come in? Why not give her the money in person? Up until now he hadn’t given her a penny, which was why she was slaving away in that café every spare minute she had.

  She unravelled the note. It was scrawled in red biro. You did a kind thing. What did that mean? What kind thing? When was that?

  He must be in some sort of trouble and he didn’t want her to be involved. He was being considerate. But Ice wasn’t considerate; it wasn’t Ice at all. He could talk a good game, but that’s all it was, talk, like when Jack was born. So what was this? Why all this money, and why not show himself?

  Chapter 7

  Tuesday

  He was drifting somewhere between sleep and thoughts of his mother. She was calling to him, pressing that damn buzzer thing she sometimes wore around her neck. Freda Calladine wasn’t happy . . . but for some reason she wasn’t able to tell him why.

  The sound was louder, piercing and close. Calladine shook himself suddenly, realising what it was. He fumbled for a moment with the duvet, then reached a hand over to his bedside table and picked up his throbbing mobile. The screen said Ruth.

  “I’m on my way to the common. More body parts have turned up. It’s a truly horrible mess, according to the constable who contacted me.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you there.” He was suddenly wide awake, unsure if he’d slept or not. There was too much on his mind — his mother, Monika and, of course, the case.

  He’d known it was only a matter of time before this happened. Whoever was responsible couldn’t hang onto the bodies for long, it wasn’t practical. Sooner or later the rest of those poor sods were bound to s
urface. Calladine supposed that their man hadn’t been too concerned about where he’d left the other bits, so the common was as good a place as any.

  * * *

  Ruth turned her collar up. It was cold and raining hard. The ground was soggy with mud and churned by numerous pairs of feet. She hated all this early morning excitement. A rushed breakfast eaten on the hoof and a cup of tea downed in one. She couldn’t wait to get back to the office, to some warmth and a chance to eat properly.

  She and Rocco carefully picked their way towards one of the small police tents that had been erected on the wasteland that was Leesdon Common. They made lonely, forlorn shapes in the open wilderness. A sad place to end up, she thought, shivering.

  It was early, not yet six in the morning, but still a crowd had gathered, their necks craning behind the police tape, all curious to know what had happened. How had they got to hear about it? She’d like to know how Calladine was going to keep this quiet.

  The edge of the Hobfield estate was only a few hundred yards away from Leesdon centre. A tract of wasteland, known as the common, separated them. It sloped down from the outskirts of Leesdon to a small stream at its lowest point then turned upwards again towards the estate. The locals used it as a shortcut to the shops along Leesdon High Street. The kids used it as a place to dump and torch stolen cars.

  “Time to get kitted up.” She took the proffered paper forensic suit and climbed into it. She pulled on the over-socks and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. Once ready, she pulled back the door flap of the nearest tent. DI Calladine would be here shortly. In the meantime, it was her call. She was flattered that he trusted her to be thorough. It had taken her long enough to earn that trust.

  Ruth Bayliss entered the tent totally unprepared for the sight that confronted her. The remains of what she was later to learn were two dismembered bodies lay scattered over the wet ground.

  She clasped her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. Unprofessional, but she couldn’t help herself. Gavin Hurst’s head was lying like a football at her feet. One of his eyes was gone, and most of his teeth. He’d obviously been severely battered about the face.

  It was a scene from a bad horror film. There was just so much blood, too many entrails, so much muddy, red pulp everywhere. In that moment, Ruth knew that Calladine’s instincts had been correct. This wasn’t the work of Fallon or a rival gang. This was something else entirely. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady herself, and understood exactly what the inspector had feared. This was the work of a maniac.

  Ruth had seen many horrific crimes, but nothing matched this. She inched forward carefully; what looked like guts were spread over the ground in front of her.

  “Nasty, isn’t it?” Doc Hoyle understated. “We’ve erected four tents and there are body parts in each. Spread over quite an area too. It looks like someone has come along with plastic bags full of bloody waste, and strewn it all over the common.”

  Ruth swallowed hard. She couldn’t tell how Rocco was doing, but she’d seen enough to make her feel faint. She stepped forward, tentatively, trying to avoid both the empty bags and the blood, until she felt the ground squish and give under her foot. She looked at Rocco. His eyes held hers for a moment. After a breath or two she steeled herself to glance down, and was horrified to find she’d just stood on a human kidney.

  * * *

  Calladine slammed the car door shut and plunged his hands deep into his raincoat pockets, hiding his fists. His face was drawn, hard-looking and expressionless as he walked towards one of the tents. Ruth was coming out in a hurry.

  By the time he got to her she was behind the tent, almost bent double.

  “First time since I was a rookie,” she apologised. “Couldn’t help it. It’s dreadful in there . . .” She nodded towards the tent. “And there’s more — entrails in that one and severed limbs over there.”

  “No half measures then.”

  Calladine lifted the tent flap and looked inside. Doctor Hoyle was bent over a torso. He looked up.

  “I’ll get them back to the mortuary, Tom. While they’re out here I can’t even tell which part belongs to which body. Although I take it the hand over there with all the fingers missing belongs to your Mr Edwards.”

  “Why here?” Calladine closed his eyes against the sight. “No attempt’s been made to hide anything.”

  “That’s about the size of it. Dumped here — left in all their gory glory for some poor unsuspecting bastard to find. The body parts were brought here in carrier bags and emptied out all over the place. God knows what it’s all about. I don’t envy you your job, Tom . . . Oh, and you should know. That bloodied hand mark was stamped on some of the bags and body parts.”

  Calladine wasn’t surprised at Ruth’s reaction. He was perilously close to throwing up himself. He finished his round of the tents and stood in the damp morning air, inhaling deeply. This was as bad as it got. But what had he got? Two mutilated, murdered bodies and a mark. Was it a gang tag? No it wasn’t — it definitely wasn’t that. But the bastard doing this wanted him to think it was. He wanted them all to be chasing shadows.

  “Detective Inspector?” The voice interrupting his thoughts was soft.

  Calladine opened his eyes and stared at the young woman in front of him. She was young — well, a good few years younger than he, and blonde. He’d never seen her before and her accent wasn’t local.

  “Lydia Holden from the Leesworth Echo.” She took a card from her bag. “Can you give me anything? The heads up on what’s going on here?”

  If she hadn’t been a woman he’d have told her to piss off. He wasn’t in the mood. But she was, and his mother had brought him up to be a gentleman, so he pursed his lips and shook his head.

  “You shouldn’t be here. Behind the tape is where you belong.”

  “I’ll get nothing back there.”

  “As yet there’s nothing to tell, and you should know better, Miss . . .”

  “Holden.” She continued to smile. “This is so very extraordinary.” Her gesture encompassed the crowded scene. “I can count, Inspector,” she dipped her eyelashes, “. . . and there are four tents. I’ve seen the pathologist arrive. So am I to take it you’re dealing with more than one murder here?”

  He gave her a long hard look.

  “You can take it any way you want. I’ve said nothing about murder, and I can’t discuss details yet, so you’re wasting your time.” Calladine shook his head. He’d like to tell this woman to go to hell, but he knew his public relations. Nonetheless, he had to tell her something; the press would be all over this soon in any case. In no time they’d be clinging to him like leeches. “We’re dealing with an incident, Miss Holden, for now that’s all I can say. When I have more I’ll be in touch.”

  He nodded curtly. As he tried to sidestep her, she caught hold of his arm.

  “I’m not stupid, Inspector. This is something big. You can’t kid me.”

  The sweet smile had soon vanished. She was just another hack after scandal. She’d be wasting her time using those looks to get anything out of him.

  “It could be in your interest to give the story to me first. We could help each other. You can’t keep us out of this, Inspector. I suspect it’s too big.”

  Lydia Holden wasn’t a name he recognised. The local reporter he usually dealt with was a crusty old character called Morton. What had happened to him? He frowned and looked at her. He wasn’t happy; it was early and he hadn’t slept. This woman, whoever she was, was a nuisance he could do without. But she was right. He would be able to keep the press at arm’s length for just so long.

  She smiled again. Her teeth were white and she had sparkling blue eyes. Her blonde hair billowed in soft curls around delicate features. The more she smiled at him, the more he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

  Lydia Holden met his stare. She was probably aware of the effect she was having on him; most men would find her beguiling. Tom Calladine was no different. She coughed lightly and finally
succeeded in handing over her card. “We’ll talk again, Inspector. My instincts tell me that before this is finished you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

  Chapter 8

  “Mrs Edwards? Donna?”

  “What the hell do you want, this time in the morning?” She’d seen at once that he was police. Her hands rested on scrawny hips, and a cigarette hung from her crudely painted mouth.

  “May we come in, Donna?” This isn’t something we should discuss out here.” He was aware of faces peering at them from the neighbour’s front doors.

  She shook her head in disgust and discarded the fag, letting it fall over the railing. Calladine watched it flicker and spin to the ground seven floors below.

  “I can tell you now I’ve got nowt to say. Nowt about me and nowt about that son of mine. And it’s Miss, not Mrs.”

  Calladine, Ruth and a uniformed female officer followed her inside the untidy, poky flat.

  “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you, Donna.”

  This was never easy. It was the worst part of his job and it never got any better. Even if it was a son like Ice, it wasn’t a task he relished. She might look like a hard nut, but it was always a front. This was a rough place to live, and the Hobfield Estate gave no quarter. If you didn’t have a big mouth, if you didn’t fight back, then you had no chance.

  Donna Edwards looked like a volatile woman. She probably knew this visit meant trouble, and she was on edge. She busied herself, nervously knocking a couple of cushions into shape and throwing them back onto the sofa.

  “What’s the little bastard done now?” She grabbed another cigarette from a pack on the table. “If it’s anything to do with money then it’s no good looking at me, cos I’ve got none. No good little scroat should be working. He owes me, and then there’s Kelly and that babe of hers. She was here earlier in the week, looking for him and asking for help, poor cow.”