Killing Pretties

by Rob Ashman

  ‘I’ll—’

  ‘You may have noticed a number of your unsavoury friends are no longer here and that provides us with a business opportunity. You see, I always think bad people behave a little like Mother Nature. The absence of your friends has created a vacuum, and Mother Nature hates a vacuum and will always try to fill it. That’s where Mr Vasco comes in.’ The newly christened Mitchell pulled an envelope from his inside pocket. ‘To help that process along, this is your shopping list. We want an outline of your Neighbourhood Policing strategy and plans, a list of target estates, current drug operations and future hot-spots. That’s enough to be going on with.’

  ‘By when?’

  ‘We’re not unreasonable, Mr Malice. You have until seven o’clock tomorrow evening to tick off the shopping list. Or the sun doesn’t come up. Have a nice day.’

  Mitchell got up and walked away.

  ‘How do I contact you?’ Malice called after him.

  ‘You don’t.’

  Chapter 35

  I called Elsa a bitch last night. She laughed in my face.

  ‘Of course I am,’ she’d replied. ‘That’s why you married me.’

  I’d tried to convince her that screwing Malice was not a good idea, besides, he didn’t fit the profile.

  ‘But he’s not a Pretty!’ I’d yelled.

  ‘He looks pretty good to me.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘It kills two birds with one stone. It was clear to see that me coming on to him put him off his game, which can only be a benefit. And it gets me laid. Where’s the downside? Everyone’s a winner.’

  ‘I’m not a winner.’

  ‘You’re a winner every day — you have me.’

  ‘But he’s a copper!’ I’d exploded and thumped my hand into the table. She laughed again.

  ‘I’ve never knowingly had one. It’ll be fun.’

  ‘Fun? Listen to yourself. He’s investigating us and you want to shag his brains out.’

  ‘That’s right. Both of those things are true.’

  ‘But I don’t want you to.’

  ‘I don’t care what you want. It’s what I want that counts.’

  The argument had continued into the evening but Elsa had made up her mind. I slept in the spare room and left for work this morning without saying goodbye. It’s the first quarrel we’ve ever had, and I have to admit I’m still in a turmoil. I’m not sure what to do. He’s not a Pretty and she’s breaking our contract. The more I think about it, the angrier I get. And the angrier I get, the more I think about it.

  I have to blank out the events of last night and get my head straight. The courtroom is packed and there’s work to be done.

  It looks like the mauling I gave Tracey Bairstow yesterday in my cross examination has taken its toll. She is a ‘no-show’ today on the basis of being ill. Maybe another panic attack. I can sympathise, given that she’s sliding down the tubes faster than a fat kid at Centre Parks — and given the fact she’s actually innocent, it’s understandable she’s feeling a little under the weather. Poor thing.

  The judge has allowed proceedings to continue as Tracey is expected to join us later. The defence have called an expert witness; a woman named Dr Carol Glen, who knows everything there is to know about blood patterns. I’ve done my homework and she claims to be able to not only identify the type of weapon used, but also the sequence of blows carried out in the attack.

  The defence barrister is on his feet, exalting her expertise and pedigree. To be honest I’ve tuned out. It would appear here is a woman who could tell me the last time I’d taken a shit by the blood on my Bic razor.

  I glance up at the bench and it looks like Peregrine Mason has all but nodded off. My mind drifts to when I first clapped eyes on Brendan Bairstow, or more to the point, when Elsa did.

  Elsa and I were attending a Law Society dinner. She was turning heads in a backless dress cut down to the small of her back and not much more covering the front. The event was winding up and most of the people had gone home. Elsa was attracting the usual attention from well-healed letches.

  She gave me one of her ‘Get me the fuck out of here’ looks and I obliged, retrieving her coat and handing it over, much to the disappointment of the chap who’d just bought her a drink. I suppose he thought a bottle of Dom Perignon was a reasonable price to pay for ogling my wife. A little like pay for view, only more expensive.

  We were heading out of the venue when Elsa spotted Brendan. He kind of fell out of the club next door, staggering around on the pavement. He was surrounded by a host of flunkies doling out damp handshakes and fake kisses to anyone who wanted them. The effects of a hefty snort of coke had made him break into a sweat. His eyes were the size of pool balls.

  Tracey came out and tried to drag him back inside but he was having none of it. He yanked his arm from her grasp and she slapped his face — hard. The surrounding entourage made an ‘Oooo-ing’ noise and beat a hasty retreat. As did Tracey when it became clear he was not going to budge.

  Elsa slipped her coat off her shoulders and handed it to me. She walked over to Brendan and struck up a conversation. Minutes later she brought him over.

  ‘This is Brendan, he’s had a row with his wife,’ she announced. ‘I said I would take care of him.’

  And take care of him she did — for the next three nights. It had been a long time since I’d heard Elsa scream her pleasure like that. But there was something about Brendan that made her hit the high notes every time.

  Brendan was a dyed-in-the-wool, 24 carat Pretty, and I couldn’t wait.

  It’s all gone quiet in the courtroom.

  ‘Mr Kaplan, do you wish to cross examine the witness?’

  Shit, I’m on.

  ‘Thank you, your Honour.’ I flatten my tie and get to my feet. I’m going to enjoy this one. ‘Dr Glen, you have an impressive resumé.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, her hands clasped behind her back, oozing confidence.

  ‘Would you care to tell the court how many times you have appeared as an expert witness?’

  ‘Erm, I don’t know exactly. I would say it has to be approaching one hundred times.’

  ‘Ninety-seven, to be precise. Quite a track record.’

  ‘I have a specialist set of skills that are in demand.’

  ‘Indeed they are, Dr Glen, indeed they are. You have told the court, in some detail, that the blood spatter found in the bathroom at the home of Brendan and Tracey Bairstow is not consistent with a blow powerful enough to cause death.’

  ‘That’s correct. The droplets were—’

  ‘If I may be so bold as to interrupt. I am not interested in hearing your expert opinion again, Dr Glen. I take it as read that it is correct.’

  Glen shifted position and clasped her hands at the front.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I say that with a degree of confidence because you are usually correct, aren’t you Dr Glen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Usually.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shall we be more specific for the benefit of the court? In the ninety-seven times you have been called to give expert testimony, how many times has your opinion been correct?’

  I glance across at the jury and watch as most of them shift forwards in their seats .

  ‘Umm, what I do is based upon science and logic—’

  ‘How many times, Dr Glen?’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘Let me help you. Do you recall the case of Edward Drummond? He was convicted of murder in 2011 when he was nineteen years old. A conviction secured partly on the basis of your testimony. Do you recall the case?’

  ‘Yes… yes I remember the case.’

  ‘How many years did Edward Drummond serve of his ten-year prison sentence?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Let me help you again, Dr Glen. He spent four years and nine months at Her Majesty’s Pleasure in Wakefield prison. A prison that is dubbed the Monster Mansion because
of the number of high profile sex offenders and murderers held there. A prison that houses six hundred of the country’s most dangerous people. But Edward Drummond didn’t fit in at Wakefield jail, did he, Dr Glen?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘He was a model inmate and was due to be released having served half his sentence. Would you like to tell the court why he was therefore released after four years and nine months?’

  ‘His conviction was quashed,’ she mumbled into her chest.

  ‘Sorry, could you speak up, Dr Glen?’

  ‘His conviction was quashed.’

  ‘That’s right. Three months before he was due to be let out on license Edward Drummond was acquitted of murder. Why was that, Dr Glen?’

  She’s staring straight ahead, looking at nothing.

  ‘Dr Glen, please answer the question,’ the judge says, he too shifting forward in his chair.

  ‘He was acquitted because new evidence came to light.’

  ‘That’s right, it did. Evidence that proved he was forty-seven miles away at the time the murder took place. A claim he made throughout his trial but your expert opinion placed him at the scene of the killing.

  ‘Four years and nine months he spent in one of the most violent jails in the UK for a crime he did not commit. Edward Drummond didn’t fit into Wakefield prison because he was an innocent man. He was three months short of serving his allotted sentence when he was released. I ask the jury to put themselves in his place and imagine how that must have felt? To know you’ve almost served a life sentence for murder when you weren’t even there. I ask you, Dr Glen — how must that have felt?’

  ‘Awful …’

  ‘A supreme understatement I would have thought. Your testimony put that young man at the scene of a murder when he wasn’t even in the same town. So, when we look at your exemplary record, Dr Glen, it is worth bearing in mind that you don’t have a full house. Do you?’

  ‘Erm… no…’

  ‘Maybe we should call Edward Drummond as an expert witness for the prosecution. I’m sure he would be more than happy to tell the court what it’s like to be on the other end of your expert opinion. No more questions your Honour.’

  I sit down and watch Glen dissolve in a puddle of her own incompetence. Members of the jury are scribbling furiously.

  A clerk of the court rushes in and mutters something behind a cupped hand to the judge. I can tell from the expression on Mason’s face that something serious must have happened. He only looks like that when we’ve over run and he’s missing his lunch. He beckons us to approach the bench.

  Ten minutes later I’m back in my chambers gathering my things together. Looks like I’m going to be home early this evening.

  Tracey Bairstow tried to commit suicide in her custody cell.

  Chapter 36

  F at rain dropped onto the windscreen and the automated wipers made a sweep. Mitchell fiddled with the controls, adjusting his seat position.

  ‘This is nice,’ he said rubbing his hands around the thick steering wheel. ‘Never driven one before.’

  ‘It’s a car, it gets me from A to B,’ Vasco stared out the side window.

  ‘An expensive way of getting there, though.’

  Vasco shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I liked the colour.’

  A young face appeared wearing a baseball cap.

  ‘Here’s you order sir.’ The lad leaned out of the window.

  ‘Keep the change, son,’ Mitchell said, handing over a tenner.

  ‘Thank you. The sauces are inside’ He took the cash with one hand and handed over three paper bags with the other. ‘Have a nice day.’

  Mitchell passed them across to Vasco who put them at his feet in the footwell. The engine growled and he pulled away into the main flow of traffic.

  ‘Have a nice day? Whoever thought that up was a genius,’ mused Mitchell. ‘No matter where you go in the world they always end the transaction with ‘have a nice day’. We should think of a catchphrase like that.’

  ‘Maybe something like ‘hope you don’t die’, though it doesn’t have the same ring to it.’

  ‘Ha, no it doesn’t.’

  ‘Tell me again, how did it go with Malice this morning?’ Vasco shifted his position to look at Mitchell.

  ‘Fine. He got a bit stroppy but nothing much. I told him what we wanted and when we wanted it and that was it.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like the man I was sitting opposite in the pub.’

  ‘I can only tell you what I saw. He asked a few questions and we did a bit of verbal jousting but that was all.’

  ‘You say he was stroppy?’

  ‘Yeah, like a toddler who didn’t want to put his shoes on.’

  Vasco shook his head and fingered the tattoos circling his neck. He reached between his feet and lifted up the bag; the car smelled of fast food. He delved his hand inside and came out with clutch of chips. He stuffed them in his mouth and rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth.

  ‘We need to watch him.’

  ‘I have it under control Lubos.’

  ‘I don’t trust him.’

  ‘Lubos, he’s a bent copper, you’re not meant to trust him.’

  ‘No I don’t mean like that; his reaction doesn’t feel right. I don’t like it.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because it is exactly how I would have reacted.’

  ‘You would have stuck a knife in me.’

  ‘Not if I had something else planned. We need to take extra care.’

  They arrived at a patch of derelict land. In the centre lay an abandoned building with a high corrugated roofline and grey cladded walls. A chain-link fence ran around the perimeter, peppered with warning signs. Every window in the place was shattered. They stopped at the metal gate. Mitchell got out, snapped open the padlock and yanked the gate across. They drove across the yard and disappeared through a gap in the wall into the loading bay and stopped.

  The vast building was empty apart from the girders supporting what was left of the external construction. Puddles of water filled the recesses in the floor and the place echoed with their footsteps as they marched across to the far corner. A set of metal steps led down into a basement corridor where the compressors and electrical switchgear used to be housed. The equipment had long since gone and the darkness wrapped around them. At the end of the corridor was a light and the silhouette of a man sitting on a chair.

  The man got up when he heard them approach.

  ‘Všetko v poriadku?’ Vasco called out.

  ‘Áno, všetko ticho.’

  ‘Urobte si prestávku.’ Vasco nodded and handed over one of the bags. The man took it and wandered back towards the stairs.

  Mitchell slid a bolt across and swung a door open. The stench of human excrement hit them in the back of the throat.

  He walked to the back of the room and switched on a camping light. The yellow glow slid around the walls and ceiling. There were no windows in the small room and the bare concrete walls did nothing to reflect the light.

  Wrigley was standing in the centre of the room, arms out stretched like he was being crucified on an invisible crucifix. His wrists were secured to the ceiling by heavy metal chains. He jerked his head up when they walked in.

  ‘Phew! Looks like you’ve shit yourself, Wrigley,’ Vasco said, waving his hand in front of his face. Mitchell switched on another light. ‘Funny isn’t it? That despite everything, the body still has its natural rhythm. I’m a ‘first thing in the morning’ guy as well. Always makes me feel better. Like I’ve started the day right. Do you get that feeling, Mr Wrigley? Like you’ve started the day right?’

  Wrigley groaned.

  Vasco shoved his hand into the bag and brought out a chicken nugget.

  ‘You know, I could never understand people’s fixation with eating this crap. That was until I had my first Happy Meal at the airport when I arrived in UK. And then I got it. This stuff is as addictive as the merchandise we
sell, don’t you think?’

  Wrigley stared straight ahead. His face was a mess. Purple bruises, cuts and swellings made him almost unrecognisable. A map of dried blood covered the front of his shirt. Vasco popped another morsel into his mouth.

  ‘I need a drink.’ Wrigley coughed the words.

  ‘All in good time. Who’d have thought the simple act of standing could be so painful, eh, Mr Wrigley? If you crouch down to take the weight off your legs and back, your hands go numb; if you stand upright, the cramps set in. It’s ingenious really. When they did it to me, I lasted three days and almost went insane. You can have water when you tell us what we want to know.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know anything.’

  ‘I have no idea why you are hell bent on protecting these people. They wouldn’t give a toss about you. So why don’t you answer our questions and all this unpleasantness will be over.’

  ‘I can’t say what I don’t know.’

  Vasco pushed his face into Wrigley’s. ‘And that’s my problem. I don’t believe you.’ Vasco then paced around the room stuffing chips into his mouth. ‘Where I come from Mr Wrigley this would constitute nothing more than a cosy chat. Okay, you have a few superficial injuries but a hot bath, a box of pain killers and some rest and you’ll be good as new. This is nothing more than a friendly conversation.’ He dropped the bag to the floor, stood in front of Wrigley and held his hands up with his fingers spread. ‘They cut off the tops of my fingers with bolt cutters and made me eat them. To coin a phrase you British like to use: they tasted like chicken. Their intention was to remove them a joint at a time, but my men arrived and now I have these,’ he waggled his fingers in the air. ‘Pretty cool, eh? So, you see, we’ve not even got started yet.’

  Vasco picked his bag from the floor and continued to munch away. Mitchell went outside into the corridor and returned wheeling a trolley. When Wrigley snapped his head to the side he saw three lorry batteries stacked on top of each other and wired together. Two thick black cables with clamps on the ends trailed on the floor.

  ‘No, no, no. I don’t know. I swear to you.’ His speech was mangled due to his split and swollen lips.

  ‘We are not interested in you Mr Wrigley. We want to know who the people are further up the chain. Who supplies the gear, where does the money go and who’s the top man? It’s really simple.’