‘What’s the body count?’ she continued.
‘Three. Male in the front room, woman in the kitchen and another female on the landing upstairs.’
Rio stepped into the main room, let her gaze roam around: a whirlwind of chaos. Typical Greenbelt Gang MO. So many things were dumped on the floor that it was hard for her to tell the shape of the room. Overturned cushions from the L-shaped creamy-beige leather suite, chunks of glass near an art deco style mirror, paper, twin discarded drawers of a dainty cabinet lying on its side. The lights on two small lamps, positioned on corner tables on either side of the French window, gave off an amber glow of softness and calm in a scene of total destruction. And the most brutal devastation of all was the body lying in the debris of the smashed glass table in the centre.
The victim was sprawled out like he’d just tipped over, one leg bent at an angle and the other straightened out. Dried blood circled the left side of his head. Not a perfect circle though, some of the blood had spread and leaked down the grooves between the wire-brushed teak floorboards. Rio crouched down beside him. With thirteen years on the job behind her, now aged thirty-five, she should’ve been a friend to death. But the air caught in the muscles of her throat as it always did. Rio just couldn’t get why humans messed each other up. But then it wasn’t for her to think about the why, but the who. Get the perpetrator off the streets and banged up behind walls so thick that the world soon forgot what their life-taking face looked like.
‘Forensics are on their way,’ Morrell said behind her. ‘Looks like the poor bastard was shot with some type of pistol.’
Rio kept her brown gaze on the body as she pulled out a tiny torch from her pocket, displaying the faint, diagonal scar on her wrist. She shone it on the vic’s head. The bloody grey-black strands of hair concealed the exit or entrance wound. She noticed a hole in his left hand: a defensive wound resulting from his hand stretched out in vain to stop the bullet coming at him. Rio guided the light against the clothing – black polo shirt with a white collar that was dipped in the stain of blood, dark blue tracksuit bottoms, and navy socks. The absence of footwear meant that the vic had probably been relaxing at home, having just risen for a day he had no idea was going to be his last. The clothing wasn’t rolled or wrinkled which meant he’d fallen where he’d been attacked not dragged from anywhere else.
‘Who lives here?’ Rio asked, spinning on the flat of her feet to face the other detective.
‘Married couple in their fifties. Maurice and Linda Bell. And from the descriptions given by the neighbours this is probably Mr Bell. His wife is in the kitchen.’
Morrell made it sound like Linda Bell was in the kitchen preparing a happy, cosy family breakfast. Rio stood up, torch still in her hand, and was guided by the other officer to the kitchen. It was a picture that she’d seen a hundred times. The ordinary domestic moment shattered by the interruption of a crime. The breakfast table had been carefully laid; this was no meal on the move while getting ready for work. There were fresh flowers in a vase, a coffee pot, toast in a rack, cereals in boxes, various spreads, all carefully laid out on a freshly ironed cloth. What stopped it looking like a breakfast buffet in a hotel was the blood – and the body.
‘Gee-sus,’ Rio let out, confronted by the violent streaks and spurts of blood on the floor and the white kitchen units near the sink.
And in a corner, slumped on the grainy flagstone floor, was the body of a woman. Her throat had been cut leaving a frozen, mini waterfall of dark red on the front of her sunshine yellow T-shirt. The only way to get a spray of blood from a wound like that was if the knife or sharp object had been plunged into the side of her neck and then sliced around the front; slice carotid artery; slice jugular vein; final slice through the trachea. Rio couldn’t stop the image that flashed through her mind – standing in another kitchen, stunned as she watched the blood drain from the slit throat of someone she’d been tasked to take care of. The faint scars on her wrist throbbed as Rio shook off the unwanted memory. Rio didn’t approach the body; best to leave that one to forensics.
She turned to Morrell. ‘This gang are developing a taste for blood. You said there was another body upstairs. Did they live with someone else because the breakfast table is set for three?’
He shook his head. ‘The Bells have a son and daughter and there’s evidence that someone else was occupying one of the other bedrooms upstairs. Maybe it was the son or daughter, but there’s no evidence of either of them being here now. They had a cleaner, but it’s unlikely they’d be sitting down with the help at the brekkie table. Old Amos, the gardener, said she came in twice a week: Mondays and Fridays. Her name was Ania. The neighbours haven’t a clue what her surname was. We think the body upstairs is the cleaner.’
Rio was glad to get out of the kitchen back into the hallway. She pulled in a few deep breaths and then wished she hadn’t as the warmth in the air intensified the tang of death at the back of her mouth. Just as they started to walk up the stairs a voice behind called out, ‘DI Wray?’
Rio twisted half around to find a man facing her at the bottom of the stairs. His stance was bold, legs braced slightly apart. Rio frowned; something about him was familiar and she had a prickly feeling at the back of her neck that the familiarity was not welcome. He looked somewhere between forty-five and fifty, with hair and the head-turning looks of what her closest friend called a silver fox, though the stubble on his chin looked more grizzly bear. He wore his formal suit and tie well on his six-two frame. Her gaze snapped back to his face as she remembered where she’d seen him. No way, her mind protested. DSI Newman would never hook her up with him.
‘What are you doing here?’ Her tone was hostile.
He answered, laidback and easy, with an accent that reminded Rio of her cousins who lived in Sheffield. ‘I’ve been placed on the investigation team.’ He took a step forwards. ‘Jack—’
Rio didn’t let him finish. Just breathing the same air as him further polluted the taste in her mouth. ‘I know who you are and the day you’re on my team is the day I’ve been sent to investigate Lucifer in hell.’
Rio swore softly as she turned her back on him and continued up the stairs. Jack Strong. Detective Jack Strong. Well, he’d better not follow her or she was likely to punch his lights out and send him tumbling straight back where he’d come from.
Still seething, Rio kept pace with Morrell as they hit the next floor, turned the corner, and stopped when she saw the female body lying face up not far from the door of a room or cupboard. She shook thoughts of Jack Strong from her mind as she approached the body. Attractive woman, the front of her top dried with blood. Eyes wide open. Hazel eyes.
The Greenbelt Gang had really gone ballistic this time.
‘From the blood around her and the mess on her front I’d say she was shot once at close range.’
Hearing the voice behind her, Rio slowly turned, trying like hell to keep her temper down.
‘I told you to get lost,’ she threw at Strong.
‘Yeah, well I’ve got orders to—’
Rio laughed with no joy. ‘Orders? That’s a strange word coming from you. As if—’ Abruptly she stopped when Strong placed a finger against his lips in a gesture for her to be quiet. Who the fuck did this should’ve-been-slung-out-of-the-force four years back think he was? Furiously she opened her mouth, but nothing came out because she suddenly knew why Strong was shushing her.
There was a sound, not too loud: a ruffling noise coming from somewhere. Still with his finger on his lips Strong moved forwards, eyes alert as he swung his gaze around. Then he passed Rio and kept moving towards the door behind the body. Rio followed.
They stopped near the door. The ruffling sound came again, then a sob. All three detectives jumped on either side of the door: Rio and Strong to the right, Morrell to the left.
Rio called out, ‘We’re the police, so whoever you are, come out with your hands held high.’
three
The answer was another
sob, this one mixed with a few beats of open crying.
Rio hitched herself off the wall, eyebrows pressed down, the skin around her mouth tight.
‘Come. Out. Now,’ she repeated.
No response. The crying and sobbing stopped.
‘Are you hungry, love? Need a drink?’
Rio was surprised to hear Strong’s voice behind her, but before she could speak he set himself at the front of the cupboard. She couldn’t believe he was putting himself in danger, so she mouthed, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
But he ignored her and carried on speaking. ‘I’ve got a bottle of water in my pocket. It’s yours if you want it.’
Silence.
Rio impatiently broke through the quiet with, ‘Strong . . .’
But he leaned towards her and whispered, ‘It’s some kid. Sobs sound just like my Mary when she was upset.’ He gave his attention again to whoever was inside the cupboard. ‘We really are the police.’
‘You . . . you could be . . . anyone.’ They heard the voice for the first time. Female. Rasping. Weary. And yeah, Strong was spot on, young.
‘Do you know what a warrant card is?’ Strong continued.
Silence. Then, ‘Is that the wallet thing that cops carry when they ID themselves?’
‘That’s the one.’ Strong took an even step forwards. ‘Why don’t I take mine out, open the door and then you can . . .’
‘Noooo.’ The voice swung high, trembling in fear. ‘Don’t come in. Don’t come in. DON’T. COME. IN.’
Rio quickly moved to stand closer to the newest member of her team. ‘We should just drag her out.’
Strong looked at her and for the first time Rio saw he had blue eyes. Not just any old kind of blue, but the type that was intense and bright. Memorable. He leaned close into her again, his breath warm against her skin. ‘Let me have one more go. If it doesn’t work, we do it your way.’
Rio didn’t like her commands not being carried through, but she needed to get the girl out into the open, and if that meant giving Jack Strong the floor she didn’t have a choice. She briskly nodded back.
Strong started his persuasive dialogue again. ‘What’s your favourite music?’
‘What?’
‘Rihanna?’
‘No way, she’s light weight.’
Strong’s lips kicked up into a grin. ‘My girl loved dance music – couldn’t get enough of it.’
‘Loved? You said loved not love? Is your daughter dead?’
The smile slid from his face, but then he pulled it back into place. ‘If we were going to hurt you lass, we’d have done it by now.’
The breathing inside the cupboard was audible now, frantic and heavy.
‘I saw what they did to Ania.’
Strong’s voice lowered a fraction. ‘We’re going to keep you safe. Make sure you’re alright.’
Silence. Then a noise came from inside like she was moving around. Two eyes appeared at the slats. Wide, searching grey eyes. The girl’s gaze jumped around as she checked out first Strong, then Rio. One side of the double door moved slightly. Both Strong and Rio eased a step back.
‘You’re alright girl,’ Strong coaxed softly. ‘We’ll do this in your time.’
The door inched forwards, little by little. It kept moving until a hand, sporting lilac-and-black striped fingerless gloves, appeared. The fingers trembled and twitched. The girl’s breathing shuddered as she halted the motion of the door, before shoving it wide-open, revealing herself for the first time. Crouched, eyes flickering with fear and at the brightness of the light, the colour of her face gave new meaning to the cliché ‘as white as snow’: as if her heart had stopped pumping blood above her neck.
Rio suspected that her shoulder-length hair was some type of blonde, but sweat had dyed it to a slick, tangled brown. Her grey eyes, a mixture of silver and bloodshot-weary, shone with the lost, wild look of a chained animal. Rio noted all of those things, but what she couldn’t take her gaze off was the tiny, spot of red, or was it brown – maybe both? – that sat awkwardly just left of the centre of the girl’s chin. If that was what Rio thought it was, then the girl had been peering through the slats in the door when the cleaner was gunned down, blood shooting backwards. Witnesses on the previous raids had been carefully controlled by the gang: terrorised, they had only seen what the gang had allowed them to see – which wasn’t much. Now, for the first time in the Greenbelt Gang investigation, there was someone who’d inadvertently been given a front row seat to view the deadly action without the gang knowing.
A unique witness.
Rio stepped forwards, mouth curved into a reassuring smile, palms stretched upwards in a welcoming gesture. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Rio Wray and you’ve been talking to my colleague Detective Jack Strong.’
The girl’s eyes darted between them as if she still didn’t believe their story. Then her hands braced, forearms shaking, against the shelf and she eased out of the cupboard. Her body swayed as soon as her feet touched the ground. Rio rushed forwards and wrapped her arms around the girl’s waist. The girl’s arms hugged Rio’s shoulders as she pushed into the solid warmth of Rio’s much taller body. ‘I’ve got you. You’re OK now, you’re OK.’
The girl’s T-shirt was damp, probably soaked through with sweat and the artificial heat from the airing cupboard Rio concluded. Despite all that heat the girl’s skin felt ice cold.
The girl’s body tensed and Rio knew what she was staring at. Gently Rio shifted her body, blocking the gruesome sight of the dead cleaner.
‘Put your arm around my waist,’ Rio gently instructed.
As soon as the girl’s arm locked around Rio’s middle she started leading her towards the stairs. But when they reached the top of the stairs the pressure of the teenager’s arm increased, so Rio stopped.
‘My iPad.’ The girl spoke softly. ‘I left it in the cupboard. Can you get it for me?’
Rio twisted her head and nodded at Strong. Then she turned back and said, ‘We’ll need to keep it as evidence, but you’ll get it back.’
They hit the stairs. ‘What’s your name?’’
‘Nicola Bell. But everyone calls me Nikki.’ Her voice was quiet and tight.
Bell. Probably the daughter that Morrell mentioned.
‘How old are you?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘Well, Nikki, we’re going to get you out of here . . .’
‘I’m thirsty. The other cop . . . I mean policeman—’ A girl with manners, Rio liked that. She didn’t meet many kids in her line of work that put politeness at the top of their how-to behaviour list.
‘We’ll get you some water.’
As soon as they hit the hallway downstairs Rio guided Nikki towards the kitchen.
‘DI . . .’ Strong’s voice was strident and urgent behind her.
Rio twisted her head to the side and only when she caught his gaze did she realise what he was trying to warn her about. But it was too late; they were already on the threshold of the kitchen. Rio tried to grab Nikki’s head, but the girl had already seen what they didn’t want her to.
Nikki’s gaze was transfixed by the blood and body in the corner with its cut throat. She let out a horrified, choked scream as she slumped back in Rio’s arms.
four
10:40 a.m.
‘I will only permit you to question her for a short period of time,’ the doctor warned Rio. ‘She’s traumatised and needs rest.’
Rio stood with Doctor Melissa Green in the corridor of a ward on the second floor of Mission Hill Hospital. Rio had decided to take Nikki Bell to a hospital in London rather than one near the Bells’ home in Surrey. The sixteen-year-old could break this case wide open, so Rio needed to keep her close.
‘I’ve got an investigation to pursue and this girl is a key witness. I’m sure that you can understand Doctor Green how important it is that I speak to her now.’
The doctor’s beeper went. As she pulled it out she replied, ‘DI Wray, I know how you can ge
t sometimes in your eagerness to find the truth. Just take this one gently.’ She checked her beeper and started moving down the corridor, then looked back at Rio. ‘I’ve got to go. Five minutes, that’s all.’
Then, as Rio turned to the protection officer stationed at the door of Nikki Bell’s room, the doctor paused for a second, flipped her head to the side and called out, ‘Don’t forget the match on Saturday. We’re going to annihilate you.’
Rio responded with a cocky, raised eyebrow. She’d known Melissa Green for a good three years, through dealing with victims in the hospital. Two years ago Doctor Green and Rio had organised a netball match between the female medical staff and some of the female officers back at The Fort to raise money for the hospital’s children’s unit. The match had been a success, so every six months Rio ‘Goal Attack’ Wray faced Mel ‘Goal Defence’ Green on the field. Both teams were competitive and aggressive in their pursuit of winning, but The Fort Tigers were still leading in the ‘we’re whipping your ass’ league table.
Rio put thoughts of the coming match from her mind as she approached the protection officer. Her superior, DSI Newman, had whinged on about restricted resources when Rio had made the urgent call requesting a protection duty of two officers. But Rio had played the high profile case card and if anything happened to their witness the heat was going to come licking back at his door. He’d eventually agreed, but when only a lone protection officer had appeared she’d felt mad enough to call her DS and pull a strip off him over the phone. But, of course, she hadn’t done that. Rio was known for sticking by the book; she’d work too hard and long to let emotions get in the way of her ultimate goal – climbing the Metropolitan Police Service ladder as far as she could go. No way was she going to be booted out – not like disgraced, former cop Calum Burns.
Calum Burns, Jack Strong. Why did she always end up with the whiff of scum parked right beside her?
Rio dumped the bad thoughts when she reached the protection officer. ‘No one, and I mean no one, comes into this room unless it’s medical staff.’
Death Trap Page 2
