by Phil Brett
Puzzled, he asked, ‘What’s Youssef Ali got to do with this?’
Wake up time for sleepyhead!
‘Because, comrade, I am in his house now and he is dead. Shot by the same gun which killed Olivia. So, it’s important. Thanks.’
I didn’t give him the time to ask any more questions or, indeed, to fail to answer any of mine. Nor did I say that it looked like Ali had killed himself, because I didn’t want to prejudice his enquiries. With that, I hung up.
He could now finish his sex, wipe his bum or flap his bunny ears. Or whatever I was obviously interrupting. Whatever it was, once he had done so, he could then start to take this a little more seriously and do what he was supposed to. In this instance, to see if anything linked Youssef Ali with Olivia Harrison’s murder.
Slipping the phone back into my inside pocket, I looked out the window and could see several comrades turning up, looking at the numbers on the doors. I guessed that they were here to secure the house. That was my job, so I went down to supervise them and give the pretence that I was more than the tea-boy here.
23. Zinnia
The three comrades outside eyed the house, excitedly discussing something which required a series of hand gestures. Judging by the head shaking and passionate finger pointing at the front door, they were discussing the key decision as to who was going to ring the bell. Or, possibly, they were in a middle of a new youth dance. I doubted that. Not in this eye-ball freezing cold.
Even allowing for the warm knee-length padded coats, the trio of teenagers looked well able to handle themselves: short hair, strong necks and a stance that simply dared confrontation. They stood, stamping the ice-cold ground to keep themselves warm. Seeing me leave the house, they fixed me with determined looks.
As I approached, I received neither a smile nor a snarl. Instead, they simply looked. I introduced myself in the vaguest of terms, whilst searching for a snappy job description for myself. I was saved from tangling myself in knots when the tallest of the three, sporting an angel tattoo on their neck, introduced themselves as Frannie. He, she or they – I couldn't identify which of the genders they were – told me that they had been called by the party, whilst they'd been working on a nearby building site for a new school.
‘We were told to get here and report to a Vic Cole,’ Frannie said.
‘She's upstairs,’ I replied.
‘So, what's up?’
I refrained from saying “the bedrooms”, and instead told them. Or, at least I told them an edited version: that Youssef Ali, a leading member, had been found dead in suspicious circumstances. We would be investigating it and help was on the way. Before I could tell them what their role was to be, Frannie told me.
‘Okay, comrade. Well, I think it would be useful if one of us stays at the front, stopping anyone coming in who shouldn't. Ian, do you mind doing that? Sean, you do the back. Same reasons. Sorry, guys. It's boring, but access needs to be restricted. I'll start talking to the neighbours to see if anyone saw or heard anything. I know comrades are on their way, but time is the essence here. When they arrive, we'll systematically do the area, going further afield.’ Frannie looked from them to me. ‘What do you think?’
The other two nodded. I was pretty much taken aback how quickly they'd accepted such a change from their working day. But Frannie hadn't finished just yet. ‘I'll call a few more people from the site to take the next few streets.’
Meekly, I offered to help. I couldn't help thinking that I was supposed to be the one who was supervising them. Frannie accepted, suggesting, that he did this side and I do the other. ‘Note the time, the house number and the names you speak to and use your phone to record everything people say. Note down any house where no one is in. We must be thorough and accurate in our detail. Record everything.’
I soon found out that there didn't appear to be much to record. Those who were in were pretty much of the same voice: that Nevin and Youssef were great blokes who were always happy to help out if called upon to do so. Stories were legion about their kind hearts. The young mum two doors down told of the shopping that both would do for her. The elderly couple talked about how they had organised the neighbourhood clean-up. And on and on they went. All were also agreed on how in love they were and how the tragic news of his death would destroy Nevin. Indeed, several cried themselves. Several offered to help. None had heard or seen anything remotely suspicious. No visitors, or anyone loitering about.
After about an hour and a half, I took respite in number 45b. Ostensibly, I did so because the resident had told me she had been close friends with Nevin and Youssef, or “the lads”, as she called them. Mary, a chatty middle-aged woman, had been visibly upset by the news. There was a possibility that she might tell me something of use. But, truth be told, it was just as much down to the fact that she offered warmth, coffee, biscuits, a fine chesterfield sofa to rest on and a fantastic collection of heavy-weight vinyl jazz albums. Very quickly, and passionately, Mary confirmed that Ali and Nev were good people and, no, she had seen no one visit recently. She had not heard anything out of the ordinary.
Mary was the area residents' rep and had worked with “the lads” on quite a few occasions. Despite being a member of a minor party who had split with us a few years back, she had found them welcoming and non-sectarian. So, happily I sat there, listening to Dexter Gordon’s 1965 album Getting Around. Treasuring the cover in my hands, I admired the marvellous photograph by Francis Woolf, with Dexter managing to look cool, even on a bicycle.
The conversation wandered. Trying not to get digestives crumbs on the carpet, I listened to Mary talk excitedly about the possibility that Spain might be following Portugal into revolution. She was, she informed me, a retired secretary. She could have just as easily been a lecturer because she had a wealth of historical knowledge, which she imparted in a pleasant-sounding voice. I could have stayed for hours enjoying Gordon’s tenor sax complimenting her conversation, but I was called back to reality when my phone went and a message from Victoria instructed me to return to the house. Pulling a face which I hoped conveyed the hassles we international revolutionaries faced, I finished my cup and offered my thanks.
On leaving the house and walking to Ali’s, I noted that Frannie was smoking a fag, whilst Ian spoke into a phone. By now, the street was full of NWC members organising themselves. Groups were fanning out to go door-to-door in the neighbouring streets. Others were now lined up, forensically searching the streets. From somewhere, they had all acquired white gloves and sealable bags. I grabbed a second with Frannie to ask if they had found anything. Talking between drags, they told me that they had drawn a blank.
Frannie nodded to someone who was distinctly not a colleague of theirs, looking more like a building than a maker of one, and with a jet black sub-machine hung on his shoulder. Obviously one of Jackie Payne’s bodyguards. Evidently, my fame had spread, as he found no need to enquire who I was, but simply told me that they were in the front room. After hanging my overcoat on the stair banister, I went in to find a rather odd looking tea party.
Most of our merry gang were here. Roijin Kemal and Asher Joseph had both occupied the two armchairs which flanked the bay-window at the front. Both were sporting their finest Day-Glo forensic jump suits, which were rolled up to their knees and open to the waist. Underneath, both wore rather boring and badly made plaid shirts. Matching hair nets completed the accoutrement. This was, it seemed, the season’s look for CSIs. Both were sipping tea from large flowery mugs and looking weary. Yeah, how they struggled for the cause.
Standing just by Roijin, and in front of a large silver mirror which dominated the room, was Jackie Payne, who had contented herself with a glass of water. Her utilitarian look was further enhanced by not favouring the fluorescent style, but instead was still in her black tight fitting jeans with white shirt, which could only be described as waiter-chic. I wondered where her flying jacket was. Not covered in fingerprint dust, I hoped. She was chatting to Victoria, who was on a two-seater
with its back to the wall, facing the window and with a full view of Joseph’s and Kemal’s knees. Judging by her wayward hair, which could accurately be characterised as the wind tunnel cut, and great smudges of dirt around her face and shirt, Cole had just returned from auditioning for the part of Artful Dodger in Oliver Twist. Poor lass hadn’t been given one of the jump suits. Next to her sat Glen Bale, who wore an overcoat and a deeply resentful look, and looked on the verge of leaving.
It was he who saw me first. ‘At last! Pete’s here, so let’s get going.’
All broke off their conversation and looked at me. Should I dance? Wave?
Jackie smiled, one I think which fell into the category of ironic, and spoke in a tone halfway between a statement of fact and an accusation. ‘We are seeing a lot of each other, Pete. People will talk. It was only a matter of hours since I last had the pleasure. When, I think I’m right in saying, I asked you not to have any further contact with Youssef.’
Kemal and Joseph gave me what I presumed was their harshest of stares, but considering they looked like a pair of dollies you’d attach to a pram, I felt like advising them not to bother.
I shoved my hands in my pockets, and leant against the wall, giving myself a rather offhand air. If I had been able to sing a Dean Martin tune I would have, but none came to mind. ‘Indeed, Jackie, but to be honest, the contact has been minimal. He wasn’t that talkative when we arrived.’
Her face didn’t appear to move a muscle, when she replied, ‘So why did you come straight here? What was it that you expected to find? Vic has been rather vague in her reasons, so perhaps you can enlighten us. If it was because you expected to find him dead, then I have to wonder why you didn’t mention it at the depot.’
‘I didn’t know what we’d find,’ I said, honestly, ‘but I wasn’t buying the idea that he had gone missing. No one does that nowadays, unless they’re hiding, being hid or just plain old dead. He hadn’t so much as checked the weather for almost twenty-four hours. So, I was suspicious enough to ignore what you’d said.’ For a second, I paused, and with no clear reason for doing so, added a little something to make sure that Cole wasn’t going to get hammered for this. ‘Victoria was strenuously against the idea and only came along to make sure that I didn’t do too much damage. Guessing correctly that she wasn’t going to be able to stop me, she tried to minimise any trouble I might cause.’
Our crazy jump-suit pair had gone from giving me the evil stare to looking at Victoria all dewy eyed, grieving for the company she now found herself in. I was revising my opinion: they were less pram accessories and more an Edwardian music-hall act.
Cole kept stony-faced. I wasn’t sure what her attitude to me was. Not positive, was my guess. No doubt, I’d find out later. Bale just sat there, looking anxious to leave. Clearly, being a crime-fighter had lost its attraction.
As for Jackie, she did not argue the point. Always one for facing realities, and not wishing them away, she could see reality here that, yes, by breaking in, we had done precisely the opposite as to which she had asked, but in doing so, we had found Youssef Ali with half his head missing. So, the key thing here wasn’t why I should do as I am told, but why he was without half his skull.
‘O-k-a-y,’ she said, drawing each letter out in a painful sigh. ‘So, have we any idea of what happened here? I suggest that we all share what we have, although I would like to emphasise that it should be brief and to the point, as I have to fly to Norway in less than two hours to prepare for the environment conference. Vic, would you like to start?’
Victoria did as requested, describing our arrival, entry and reaction to what we had found. A kids’ dictionary couldn’t have been more concise. Made us sound rather efficient, I thought.
Then I said my bit. I did the concise thing too, which coincidently meant that I could skip the bit about eating bickies whilst listening to jazz. No one had seen or heard anything suspicious or, indeed, had seen anyone visiting them in the last few days. (Not that meant much – they hadn’t seen us enter either). Even in these days of looking out for each other, it didn’t mean that we passed our days gazing at each other’s front doors.
‘And, in a nice twist of irony,’ I added. (Although I wasn’t sure that it was irony. I found it difficult to tell, and people got so picky about it, didn’t they, correcting it with, ‘Oh, no. That’s just coincidence’, or something similar. I would guess that Bale was probably one of those sorts. I could see him being a grammar Nazi.) ‘They also told me that most of the CCTV in the area had been removed because Nevin and Youssef had organised community action to rip them down.’
Bale nodded and , in a voice oozing gravitas or possibly the onset of a cold, that it confirmed what he had been found out. ‘Whether there is anything sinister in that Ali had them removed, I don’t know. If you remember, the party encouraged such action across the country.’
Jackie wagged a finger. ‘Okay, okay. Let’s not jump ahead of ourselves. Before we start looking for visitors in the night, and whether there’s any film footage of them, let’s see if there’s any evidence to suggest that there might have been any in the first place. Ash?’
‘Thanks.’ He beamed, glad to have been thrown a ball. ‘Needless to say, this is all from only preliminary on-site analysis. We shall know more when we get the samples and the body back to the lab.’
Jackie and Cole nodded in understanding. I restrained from pointing out that, so far, he and Roijin had pretty much found bugger all about Olivia since they’d got her back to “the lab”.
With the agreement of his two mums, he continued. ‘Time of death was between eleven and midnight. I could have been more precise on the time if there had been any insect activity around the body, but they have an auto-insect repellent installed in the kitchen lights. Sorry to be so graphic.’
He paused, waiting for a response. He didn't get any, so he continued, ‘Death was due to a single bullet entering the skull through the upper mouth, the middle of the upper hard palate, and smashing through the rear of the nasal cavity and the nasopharynx and exiting through the left parietal lobe, although it pretty well took out most of the back of the skull with it. It is consistent with the gun being placed in his mouth, resting on his front teeth. Saliva which matches Ali’s was found on the barrel.
‘The bullet was lodged behind him in one of the tiles. We can confirm that it is an AA12 bullet and the ballistic match with our portable wonder-gizmo confirms that it is the gun found at the scene, which is the weapon used to kill Olivia Harrison. I should add that where the gun was found on the floor is also where you would have expected it to be.’
He took a sip of his tea. I silently breathed a sigh of relief that my unfortunate nudging of the gun with my foot hadn’t disturbed the evidence too much.
‘I have found no bruising or abrasions anywhere on the body which would suggest force or a second person involved. The prints on the gun are also consistent with Ali being the one who held it. The AA12 second series doesn’t leave any residue when fired, so I couldn’t check for that. I would add that it does not make any noise, so no one would have heard anything either. It’s the perfect assassin’s weapon.’
‘Is it too early to tell if he was drugged?’ Jackie asked.
‘I did an on-site prelim blood test, but with the caveat that it is only basic and not very thorough one, I came up with a negative.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Sorry, Jackie, but that’s all I’ve had time to do so far.’
‘Okay. Thanks, Ash. Roijin?’
Roijin coughed and cleared her throat. ‘I should also add the caveat that our investigations are only at an initial stage.’
Caveat appeared to be word of the week. I was impressed that they knew what it meant. Unknowingly, I must have been facially betraying what I was thinking, because out of the corner of my eye I saw Cole give me a brief smile and flash with her eyes a command for me to behave. That said, looking as she did, she really wasn’t in a position to call for
seriousness. With that urchin look, I half expected her to start singing about picking pockets at any moment.
Roijin, though, was oblivious to my mockery. She was too busy explaining that discounting how Vic and I had entered, there was no sign of forced entry anywhere in the place.
‘I also checked his computer, which the note was written on. It was written at 11.50pm and is the last known activity for any technical device he owned. Because he had chosen to switch offline, your . . . er . . .’ she stumbled over how to describe our spying, ‘. . . monitoring . . . meant that it wasn't registered. It is fingerprint protected and the prints on the keyboard match Ali’s. He logged on, typed it and was off in three minutes forty seconds. He used the Calibri font, size 12, which matched other documents. His signature matches exactly his found on other documents.’
She stopped. Report delivered. Jackie turned her attention to Cole. It wasn’t looking good for those of us who didn’t want, or believe, that it was suicide. It got a whole lot worse when she spoke.
Holding up a see-through bag, she announced that this was spare ammunition which she had found in a false back to the wardrobe. It matched the AA12.
‘Then there is this,’ she said, holding up a second bag. It was like she'd been shopping in the sales. But we didn't get a “look what I bought myself!” Instead, she showed one containing a phone. ‘This was hidden there as well. It is not registered to Ali and, indeed, is a type which I have never seen before. So far, we have been completely unable to get past the security coding to unlock it.’
‘Do you think you will be able to?’ Jackie asked, addressing both Kemal and Cole.
The latter deferred to her forensic ICT chum, who blew out her cheeks and valiantly said that she'd give it a go.
