by Jay Nadal
“Word gets around.”
“We understand there was an altercation between you two at a restaurant in Holborn yesterday evening. Can you tell me what that was about?”
Macholl shrugged and smiled. He wagged his finger at them. “You’re sitting here thinking I had something to do with his death. You see, your lot and I go back a long way. I know how you work. You’re starting from last night and working backwards. You’re checking to see what happened in the last few hours he was seen alive. And then you’ll check the days and weeks before that. You’ll be looking for any evidence, my movements, CCTV, his phone records, sightings of him, or any incidents connected to him. So, that’s why you’re sitting here now.”
His assessment wasn’t far off, and Karen was impressed by the man’s clear and logical thinking. For someone incarcerated for five years, his thoughts were structured and rational.
“Well, I was there. As you know. We had a disagreement, but I didn’t kill him. If I did, do you think I would sit here… talking to you?”
“And where did you go after leaving the restaurant?” McQueen asked.
Macholl looked away, staring out of the window, the slightest of wry smiles on his face. “I came back here. As you know, because you would have done your research, I’ve only just returned to the UK. I popped into Mo’s on the way back and came back here.”
“Mo’s?”
“Mohammed. He owns the off-licence down the road. He’s got CCTV footage. You’ll see me going in there, buying a bottle of Scotch, and coming back here.” Macholl flicked his head back towards the bed, and both officers glanced past Macholl to see a bottle of Scotch sitting on the bedside table.
“So, you’ve just got back to the country, and you go to a private birthday party, where you kick off?” Karen asked, as she furrowed her brow.
Macholl stood up and went over to the bedside table where he retrieved a mobile phone. He flicked through the screens until he came to his messages. He passed the phone to Karen. “Someone invited me. This was waiting for me when I left the prison. The screws passed it over.”
Karen read the message, before passing it to McQueen, who placed it in a clear evidence bag.
“Someone other than Jack invited me, without his knowledge. I don’t know who, and I don’t know why. But it was to spark a reaction. It was clear the moment I arrived that I wasn’t welcome. That’s why Beanie kicked off.”
“But you go way back. Why does he hate you?” Karen probed.
Macholl shrugged but didn’t offer an answer.
“Can you think of anyone else who may have wanted him dead?”
Macholl laughed. “That list would be far too long. I can’t imagine him being on anyone’s Christmas card list, can you? He was a dangerous man, a violent man. There would have been plenty who wanted him dead. You do know that Taylor was the supply source behind most of the drug dealers around here? He had the place sewn up.”
“We’ll need a mouth swab back at the station, and we’ll need the clothes you were wearing yesterday.”
Macholl stood, towering above the two officers, before he unbuttoned his jeans, and whipped them down in a matter of seconds, taking both officers by surprise.
Karen pushed back in the sofa. “Um, what are you doing?”
Macholl smiled, that charismatic and warm smile again. Almost teasing. “You said you wanted the clothes I was wearing. Well… I’m still wearing them.” He stepped out of his jeans and pulled off his white T-shirt. “There you go. My leather jacket is hanging off the back of the door.”
His approach was unorthodox but it made McQueen smile, even if it surprised Karen.
Macholl walked around to his sports holdall by the side of his bed where he retrieved a fresh set of clothes.
Karen opened her handbag, and took out a pair of latex gloves, and a brown evidence bag she had folded up. She gave both to McQueen and nodded for him to get on with it.
McQueen shot her a look to suggest, “Why me?”
Karen fired back a stare that implied, “I’m the boss, and you can pick up his dirty crap.”
Karen called through for a unit to take McQueen and Macholl to the nearest station, where Macholl’s formal statement would be taken, and a DNA swab would be obtained. It would also provide an opportunity to gather scrapings from under his fingernails for any evidence of gunshot residue. She requested that Brad meet McQueen there to conduct the interview, whilst she attended the mortuary.
11
Mortuaries always had a coldness about them. Not just because the temperature had to hover at a constant cool, but they had a quietness she found off-putting. People went about their work in silence, and an air of gravity and sombreness enveloped the place. Undertakers came and went. Shrouded bodies were wheeled from one place to another. And the sickly smell of death, air freshener, and disinfectant hung like an invisible cloak in the air and seeped into every fibre of the clothes you wore.
The manner of death being a gunshot wound to the face only added to the uneasy feeling roiling her stomach. She hadn’t witnessed many bullet wounds to that part of the body. And there might not be much left of the face, depending on the weapon used. After dressing in a protective apron, foot coverings and gloves, she pushed through the double doors.
“Sorry, sorry I’m late. I’ve been tracking down a potential suspect.” That was just the half of it. Macholl had revealed further information towards the end of their visit that further muddied the waters and provided a possible motive.
Wainwright glanced through the plastic visor that covered his face. “That’s okay. I know you’re busy. I was just about to start.”
Jack Taylor lay on the metal trolley, the outline of his body visible beneath the white sheet that shrouded him.
“Right, shall we crack on?” Wainwright said, wiggling his latex gloved fingers. There was a hint of macabre excitement in his voice at the prospect of examining another cadaver. He drew back the shroud and stood in silence for a few moments. The gunshot had hideously distorted and mangled Taylor’s face.
“My word, this one is a mess.”
Karen offered nothing more than a simple nod, her eyes transfixed on the remains. It never ceased to amaze her how a single gunshot could create so much damage, which only made her marvel at the fragility of the human form.
Wainwright went through the standard procedure of offering visual observations of the body from head to toe. Each comment was recorded on tape and photographed by his assistant. He then moved closer to inspect the wounds around Taylor’s face.
“He was shot once, with a handgun rather than a shotgun. Had it been the latter, there would have been a different shot pattern to his face as the shot dispersed. Here we have one entry, and… one exit wound,” he added, lifting Taylor’s head to examine extensive disruption to the back of the man’s skull. “As you can see, the exit wound is larger than the point of entry. It was at close range as I thought.”
“Did he try to defend himself?”
Wainwright moved down towards man’s hands, lifting each one, inspecting the palms, and the tips of the fingers, before moving to examine the back of each one. He tugged down on the inspection lamp that hung above them to offer more illumination. The hands were pale and devoid of colour as if someone had dipped the skin in a vat of bleach.
“Not that I can see, other than the bruising I observed earlier at the scene. If he had been defending himself, then his hands may have been damaged by the gunshot, or we would have been able to identify GS residue.”
Karen frowned, trying to imagine the scene in her mind. If she went with what Wainwright suggested, then Taylor had his hands by his sides. Did that mean he wasn’t expecting to be shot?
“However, as we saw at the scene, there are these long, thin scratch marks on either side of his face.” Wainwright took a long metal probe and placed the tip on the scarring to Taylor’s face. He took some moistened cotton pads and cleaned the area. “Behind the mess, we can see three scratch m
arks on either side of his nose that start just below the nostrils and extend across his cheeks towards his earlobes.”
Karen stared at the probe. “Do you think they were done at the same time?”
“I can’t be sure, Karen.” Wainwright shook his head. “They are fresh, and I would say less than twenty-four hours old because there is no evidence of scabbing.”
Karen thought about the possibility that the wounds had been inflicted during his altercation with Macholl. With luck, forensics would identify DNA material beneath Macholl’s fingernails.
Wainwright looked up from his examination to observe Karen deep in thought as she stared intently at Taylor’s body, her arms wrapped protectively across her chest. “I haven’t seen you over this way much. How have things been recently, since… well… you know what?”
The question startled Karen. She got on well with Wainwright, and their paths had crossed many times. He was an intelligent man, and she found herself engrossed in deep conversation with him on a level she appreciated. But it was a loaded question.
She shrugged a shoulder, unsure how to respond. They had always been frank and open with each other, but one area had been a sticking point in recent times.
Accepting Karen’s awkwardness, he attempted to appease the situation. “Listen, I know it can’t be easy. It’s me, Karen. I think I know you well by now. It’s been a difficult journey for you, but I want you to understand that my door is always open, and the kettle is always warm.”
She offered a smile in return. “Only if you’ve got chocolate digestive biscuits,” she added, attempting some humour to lighten the situation.
Wainwright’s head tipped back, as he roared with laughter. “A woman after my own heart. I’m sure I can stretch to that… because it’s you.” Wainwright pushed no further. He had said what he needed to and left an open-ended invite.
Wainwright moved back to business. “So yes, your cause of death is a gunshot wound to the head. But I will also continue with my examination and open the big fella up and see what else we have. At the scene, I noticed that he had a slight yellowing to his skin in places. That could indicate many things, but my instinct tells me that based on his lifestyle, it could be early liver disease from excessive alcohol consumption.”
Karen sighed. “Thanks, Wainwright. I’ll await your full report. Right now, I need to call it a day. I had an early start, and frankly, I’m fucked.”
Wainwright raised a brow in response to Karen’s bluntness and winked in return.
12
Karen’s stomach growled and squirmed as the aroma of food filled her kitchen. The microwave chimed three times as it finished cooking a meal. She opened the door and was hit with a wall of heat and steam as her Italian pasta bubbled and spat in its plastic container. She gripped the edges and whipped the dish out, the searing heat from the plastic scorching her fingertips.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she fumed, waving her hands in the air, and making an oval shape with her lips as she sucked in air.
She’d followed the instructions and waited a further minute. It had always puzzled her why the instructions suggested it. Was it to let the food cool down? Or, was the food still cooking? Whilst waiting, she grabbed a large wineglass and helped herself to some red wine. She’d talked herself out of labelling the habit alcoholism, but Tesco’s over the road did a healthy trade in wine from her, and half a bottle miraculously disappeared most nights she stayed in. She could blame stress, boredom, or loneliness. Any of them, or all three. But she didn’t care. She loved how it tasted, and how it blotted out the worst of her thoughts at the end of the night.
Karen dropped into her sofa and let the cushions hem her in. With her plate on her lap, and vino by her side, she let out a sigh of relaxation. She felt too tired to eat, but knew she needed to. Mental exhaustion could roll into physical exhaustion, and she often found herself having a few pieces of toast before collapsing on the sofa and waking up in the middle of the night, not remembering when she’d dozed off.
She flipped through the channels, but nothing seemed to seize her attention. She grabbed her other remote control and changed to Netflix. There were a few series that she was following, some were crime dramas, others were one-off thrillers, and some were just plain light entertainment that required little effort on her part and allowed her to veg.
She forked pasta, taking in large mouthfuls. It wasn’t until she ate that she realised how hungry she was. Other than copious amounts of coffee during the day, she had survived on nothing more than a sausage sandwich from the café this morning.
Manky, her cat, padded in and rubbed his body against her legs. He had been lying on her bed, his favourite place, until the smell of food piqued his curiosity. He purred his approval as Karen rubbed the side of her foot against his thick coat. She’d had Manky for three years and had only bought him once she’d found a place that allowed her to keep pets. He was a great British short-haired breed, with the densest of coats, that felt plush. He was easy-going and slept most of the day, which made life easier. He was kind, loyal, loved a cuddle, didn’t answer back, and gave her little to worry about. In her opinion, Manky had all the qualities that most of the male race lacked.
She blew him a kiss as his bright copper eyes stared at her.
“If you think you’re getting any of this, think again, boyo. Your dinner is in the kitchen. If you’re lucky, you might get a treat later.”
Manky remained expressionless as he looked her up and down. She had named him Manky when she had visited the litter not long after they were born. There was something about him that drew her in. His ears were curled forward much in the same way as rugby players who have cauliflower ears. And instead of a high-pitched squeal and cry that his brothers and sisters offered as they clamoured for her attention, Manky could only muster a croak. She thought he looked manky and the runt of the litter, but his description soon became his name.
After finishing her meal, Karen placed her plate to one side and took a few healthy glugs of her wine and enjoyed the wave of euphoria that flooded through her. She closed her eyes, and let the tension fall from her shoulders, savouring the moment.
The moment of escape soon passed as she reached for her laptop and logged in. There was something about Dean Macholl that bothered her. He had an edginess to him, but equally had the face of a charmer. He had come across as placid and intelligent when she’d questioned him at his apartment. She searched through the databases until she identified his files. What she read appeared to contradict the initial impression she’d formed of him. Reading through the details of the botched raid on the bookies, and the subsequent fatal injuries sustained by the cashier, didn’t fit with the man she’d met. It reminded her how looks could be deceiving. At some point in his life, Dean Macholl had been a violent armed robber.
Perhaps he’s done his time and is turning over a new chapter in his life?
“And pigs can fly,” she muttered to herself. Who was she kidding?
Whilst online, she checked on the progress of the other case that her team was dealing with. McQueen and Brad had updated the files to confirm that CCTV footage captured the raid, but couldn’t identify any suspects from the footage. Forensics had completed their sweep of the premises. They had found dozens of fingerprints on the glass door, handles, work surfaces and TV screens. Whilst that was good, Karen knew it was like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. She had no doubt that most of the prints belonged to customers.
Her mind swirled as she dropped the laptop on the couch beside her, and tilted her head back for a moment. It was the new case that was spinning her mind, or the red wine.
She glanced at Manky, who was asleep and blissfully unaware of the turmoil that raced through her mind. Being alone afforded her the peace and tranquillity she needed. And being in a small market town offered her the anonymity she wanted. But at that precise moment she would have loved a few hours in the company of a man. Perhaps not even a few hours if she thought a
bout it. In fact, she knew she’d be an awful girlfriend, and a nightmare to live with. But with the wine flowing through her, her body ached for some raw, passionate sex. The type where she could throw caution to the wind and enjoy the fantasies she kept hidden. The thought of being in a physical relationship, or any relationship for that matter with the same person for years frightened her.
She hadn’t been like other officers going through the ranks. As a police constable, she’d seen many of her colleagues enter casual relationships with each other. When she had rebuffed the unwanted male attention, rumours had spread about her being a lesbian… just because she didn’t conform. She gritted her teeth in anger and then swore for allowing that feeling of nirvana to be replaced by anger, contempt and sadness.
Her relationship with the DCI had been anything but harmonious. The rumours about her sexuality continued to the day. He had tried a clumsy and drunken pass at her during a Christmas party. He hadn’t taken kindly to being brushed off, to which he’d replied “you will regret this.” The air had crackled with tension in the days that followed, and they had never seen eye to eye since. He was a dickhead in her opinion. An officer that should have retired long ago. Karen suspected that he was the source of many rumours about her. The DCI carried a lot of clout, he was old school, and well respected. Karen, on the other hand, was a pariah, not liked by many. She played by the rules and wouldn’t think twice about grassing on officers who bent or broke the rules.
She had seen more than her fair share of blackmail and corruption. In her eyes, such officers blackened the name of the Met and the fantastic job they did. The rank and file were lambasted by the press, criticised in Parliament and not trusted by the public.
“Why… why… why am I so screwed up…?” she mumbled as her body succumbed to sleep.
