by Jay Nadal
Karen signed into the scene log, and grabbed herself a white paper suit, gloves, and blue foot coverings before making her way into Macholl’s apartment block.
McQueen and Brad were already on site, standing by the front door to Macholl’s apartment, and talking with one of the SOCOs.
“What have we got, gents?” Karen asked as she unzipped her suit and stepped into it, pulling one arm through and then the other before zipping it up.
Brad looked at his notes to double-check what he had written. “Several neighbours called about two seventeen a.m., after hearing what they thought was a gunshot or car backfiring. One or two of the residents looked out to see a figure disappearing through the gates and turning right before making their way down the road at speed.”
“Description?”
Brad shook his head. “Nothing, ma’am, other than a dark figure. We can’t confirm if it was male, female or the abominable snowman.” He tutted.
Karen rolled her eyes, both at the lack of description, and Brad’s feeble attempt at injecting humour into the situation. “Macholl?”
“The pathologist has confirmed a single gunshot to the chest. More than likely penetrated the heart.”
“Is Wainwright still here?”
Brad shook his head. “No, boss. The pathologist has been and gone. He said he would catch up with you later. I think he was going straight from here down to the Thames. River Police have pulled out a body.”
“So, first Taylor, and now Macholl. Both with a single gunshot wound. Is this the start of a vendetta or turf war?” McQueen speculated.
“Your guess is as good as mine, Steve. Okay, let’s take a look,” Karen said as she stepped through the doorway.
As she made her way into the bedroom the small apartment was as she remembered. The room was brightly lit with some small portable arc lights that forensics had set up. Since it wasn’t big enough to accommodate all of them, McQueen and Brad paused at the door, whilst Karen joined two SOCOs who were continuing their investigation. It was a scene she was all too familiar with but had never got used to. She had become accustomed to the smell of death that lingered in the air, but the bodies still took her by surprise. Nothing prepared you for that. The smell was subtle and less repulsive than the ones that clung to her at the mortuary. Nevertheless, it was still unpleasant and only added an extra layer of gravity to the scene.
The added odour of cigarettes hung in the air. As far as she knew, Macholl didn’t smoke.
She paused for a moment as she watched the still figure of Macholl lying slumped to one side of the sofa. He was naked other than a pair of boxer shorts. Something about him had captured her initial interest. Maybe it was his swagger, or his charisma and confidence. But she felt a slight hint of sadness as she stared at his crumpled form.
“Estimated time of death was around two seventeen a.m. if the neighbour’s calls are anything to go by,” she commented, not averting her eyes from Macholl.
Not wishing to disturb the scene any further, Karen took a few moments to glance around the small room. She noticed the rumpled bed linens, and two indentations in the mattress. There were also two wine glasses, one empty, the other containing the remnants of what appeared to be red wine.
Macholl had company.
Karen turned towards the female forensic officer who was documenting the evidence they had gathered in clear plastic bags. “Have you found anything of interest?”
The SOCO glanced up and nodded. She spoke from behind her face mask, the fabric puffing in and out as she spoke. “We recovered hair samples from both pillows. There are a couple of short strands, which possibly belonged to the deceased. But I also recovered two longer brown hair samples from one pillow. They are probably near ten to twelve inches long. There are also some stains on the bed sheets. We’ll examine them for DNA.”
“Anything else?”
The SOCO held up several clear evidence bags and passed them in Karen’s direction.
Karen examined the contents of each bag. Each one contained a handwritten letter. The dates on each letter were several months apart, and were written from a female perspective. She would examine them later, but what drew her attention to each letter was the signature. Just the initial D, followed by a single kiss underneath.
Karen looked up from the evidence bags and glanced around the room. Macholl’s clothes lay in a pile to one side of his bed. She imagined he had climbed into that side of the bed, and his guest had joined him on the other side. But her eyes were drawn to the bedside table and a thick, sturdy book that sat by the lamp.
“Is it okay if I head over there?” Karen asked, jabbing her finger towards the bedside table.
The SOCO glanced over her shoulder and nodded.
As Karen got nearer to the table she realised the thick book was in fact a copy of the Bible.
Macholl, religious? I didn’t expect that.
It was open, and she leaned in to take a closer look at a page that had been circled in red. The book hadn’t been dusted for prints, so she didn’t touch it, but read out the section circled.
Deuteronomy 32:35
It is mine to avenge; I will repay.
In due time their foot will slip;
their day of disaster is near
this and their doom rushes upon them.
23
The thought of crawling under her desk and falling asleep appealed to her more than sifting through the case file. Dealing with Taylor’s murder was proving a challenge and adding Macholl’s murder to the mix only added to her problems.
Too little sleep, an empty stomach, and remnants of alcohol left her with a growling and burning stomach that distracted her from the task in hand. Part of her was preoccupied with the ambush eight months ago. The haunting memory lingered, never far from her thoughts and would often sidetrack her from important work. Shaking her head, and thumping her desk with a clenched fist, she jolted herself back into the present.
Forensics would wrap up their search of Macholl’s apartment soon. Even though ballistics wouldn’t have access to the bullet until after the post-mortem, Karen would work on the assumption that the results would reveal the same firearm used to kill Taylor. That they were associates, and killed within days of each other, made it more of a certainty in her mind.
McQueen tapped on her open door, and hovered in the doorway, waiting to be called in. Karen waved him in as she clicked through various emails, deciding which to keep and which to send to the bin. The majority were heading for the bin. Even if they were important, she knew people would chase her when they hadn’t received a reply. She was all for less clutter; she hated her desk being untidy and lots of unopened emails in queue. She liked a clean working space. It was a shame she couldn’t do that with her own mind.
“I’ve got an update for you, boss.” McQueen grabbed a seat, straightening his tie, even though it didn’t need straightening.
The action bought a slight smile to Karen’s face. It didn’t matter where McQueen was, or what he was doing, his appearance came first. He was the smartest, and snazziest dresser in MIT, and every time he walked into another station, officers would give him a second look. Pencil-thin ties, small collars, and neatly pressed white shirts were his trademark. Sometimes his trousers looked as if they’d been sprayed on, and Karen had often stared at his backside, admiring how good he looked.
“We had officers doing door-to-door enquiries. As we know, several residents heard what they thought was a loud pop and put it down to a car backfiring shortly after two a.m. However, we’ve also got one witness who saw someone leaving around one a.m. This resident was just going to sleep when they heard the electronic release on the front door to the block. She’s an old dear and likes to be nosey. Her admission, not mine. Anyway, she looked out and saw someone walking away from the front door and making their way towards the main road.”
“Description?” Karen asked, making notes on her pad.
“Female. Average height, dark hair, wearing
a long coat, and high heels. The witness distinctly remembered the sound of heels clicking across the path.”
The timings didn’t work for Karen. But that wasn’t to say that whoever it was didn’t return. One thing was certain, Macholl had female company just hours before someone killed him.
“What do you reckon, boss? Do you think the same person returned an hour later and shot him?”
Karen tapped the end of her pen on the desk. “The letters we found were signed with the initial D. My hunch is that it was Diane. I think she’s got too much to lose by going back and killing Macholl. Besides, I’m not sure what the motive would be. If Diane thought he was responsible for Taylor’s death, then it could be a simple act of revenge. I wouldn’t put it past her to get access to a firearm.”
“But if it was the same firearm used to kill Taylor, then I don’t understand her motive for killing both?”
“Me, neither. Okay. Thanks, Steve.”
McQueen stood, and straightened out the creases in his trousers before turning to leave. Karen watched him but averted her gaze when she found her eyes tracking down his body. She clenched her teeth. God, what is wrong with me. I’m his boss, not a forty-something cougar.
Karen was waning. Hunger assaulted her stomach so she couldn’t think straight. One minute she was focused on the case, the next, thinking about motives, before moving on to men and carnal instincts.
She pushed her chair back and arched her spine to relieve the tension. She was fast approaching not having eaten for twenty-four hours and needed food. It was a common problem. Officers went for most of their shift without eating as they became absorbed in their cases, pushing food to the back of their minds. And then they would resort to fast food binges whilst they continued to work. An endless stream of moped riders arrived at the front door, delivering kebabs, Chinese and pizzas.
Karen needed something more substantial which would help her survive the whole day. With Macholl’s post-mortem scheduled for later in the day, she would rather eat now and allow it to settle. Wainwright had a habit of making her feel uncomfortable as he carved his way through the cadavers.
She headed for the local Tesco Metro, and settled for a boring chicken pasta, a pack of fruit salad, and coconut water.
“What a glorious life I lead, a meal for one yet again,” she said as she sat in her office and stared at the delectable feast that did little to excite her.
Karen envied the life that McQueen led. He had two passions in life, his motorbike and his car. She had seen his bike frequently, but only seen his car once. It was his pride and joy. He had a genuine Mustang, the exact model that Steve McQueen had driven. She couldn’t remember much of the detail, but the words Bullit and Highland green sprang to mind. Oh, that and the price tag. He had paid forty thousand pounds. She wasn’t sure where he got the money to afford his expensive lifestyle, perhaps a rich aunt or uncle, or some inheritance, but it wasn’t from a police salary. Every officer she knew struggled to get by on the money they earned. She was curious to know, just to be nosey more than anything else, but had never asked.
McQueen had revealed earlier on in the day, that he had a date this evening. She had lost count of the number of dates he’d been on in recent months, but it felt like he had a new date every week. God she was envious of him. A carefree life with some simple pleasures. And what did she have? An apartment in the middle of Essex, a moggy, and a fridge full of wine. Her thoughts turned to her sister. Guilt flashed through her mind as she stared at her mobile phone, willing herself to pick it up, but something stopped her. Was it really guilt? Or was it out of sight out of mind? But that would be worse, surely? Maybe it was denial or the fact that if she kept herself busy long enough, she wouldn’t have to think about her.
24
The inner city grew around him like an uncontrolled spawning of concrete and metal alleyways and roads that led in every direction. The only splash of colour in the grime came from the lurid graffiti and the pavements that were littered with drugs paraphernalia. From every covered doorway came the dejected stares of men and women in their pathetic cardboard sleeping bags. From upper windows came the boom of subculture music and a fusion of curry and cannabis smells. The hookers stalked the streets in their skimpy outfits and high boots looking for work, their drug-addled bodies as thin as pins, their cheekbones jutting out through pallid skin.
Here he could be anyone, or perhaps no one at all, and that suited him. He could move in the shadows, street to street, ducking in doorways, and darting around the web of council housing estates that sat shoulder to shoulder with Victorian terraced town houses.
Shoreditch was a melting pot of diverse cultures, the wealthy and the poor, the trendy urbanites and the working class.
Skelton didn’t want to know, or care. They were scum. Filthy, desperate scum who would stab their own mother in the back for a lump of crack. Once upon a time as a bobby on the beat, he loved the area, and people knew where they stood. There was good and bad. That was it. Nothing more complicated. It was a patch he’d grown up in. His dad and grandad were in the police. His dad was in the flying squad in the late fifties. Skelton was in his teens at the time and joined the police at eighteen.
His dad was old school. The old flying squad sent chilling shards of fear through the criminal underworld. A punch and a whack with a pickaxe handle were just as effective as a truncheon. They’d much rather beat a confession from an informant or suspect, than interview them across the desk. And Skelton represented a dying breed. Gone were the days where CID and criminals stood by side in shady backstreet pubs, swapping information and keeping tabs on each other.
Now it was procedures, PACE, digital voice recorders, CCTV, and forensics that led the way.
Skelton dipped back into a doorway and blew out a plume of cigarette smoke that swirled and hung in the air in front of his face.
People walked past him, hurrying to wherever they needed to go, flowing like rivers, never stopping for obstacles but skirting around them. A few cast a disparaging look. He retaliated with his own steely stare that made them glance away in fear and uncertainty.
He waited, as he always did. The man he was meeting was always late, no doubt holed up in some pit or drug den, getting off his face. He was a liability when like that, but Skelton needed him, and knew how to manipulate the man’s weaknesses.
Skelton glanced at his watch. Eighteen minutes and counting. He clenched his teeth in frustration. Checking the street in both directions, he saw the man bumble along, glancing into each car as he passed. Skelton could accurately read every stilted action. He was looking for anything of value. A sat nav, handbag, phone, or an expensive scarf. Small items were easy to flog down the local pub. He made a few hundred pounds a week doing just that. His work for Skelton topped that up.
Skelton stepped out of the doorway long enough for the man to see him, before taking a step back into the shadows.
The man crossed the road and joined him.
“What’s happening, man?”
Skelton studied the man for a few moments. He called him Lizard, and for a reason. The man had chronic eczema. His skin was scabby, red and peeling. His face looked like it was moulting. Skelton sneered at him, wondering what he might catch if he touched him.
“I’ve got a job for you,” Skelton muttered.
Lizard’s face lit up. The prospect of earning cash fired up his senses. His dark and dirty, bloodshot eyes shifted wildly in excitement. He tucked his hands in his pockets and pulled his shoulders in tight to his ears.
“Always happy to help, you know me. What’s the dealio?”
Skelton wasn’t going to give him the exact location, but he needed to identify somewhere at least two miles away from the industrial estate. “I need you to create a distraction tonight. Do you know Shadbolts, the timber place?”
Lizard narrowed his eyes, and stared towards the sky, trying to place the location. He took a few moments, but then certainty appeared in his eyes, and he nodded o
nce to confirm he knew the place.
“Make sure it’s around there. And make it big.”
Lizard pursed his lips into a thin line. “Consider it done. What do I get in return?”
Skelton poked his head out from the doorway and looked up and down the street. He had checked for CCTV as he entered the street. When he was certain the coast was clear, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the package. He thrust it towards Lizard, pressurising him into hiding it quickly. “There’s enough weed in there for you to make five hundred quid, and there’s another five hundred quid in cash.”
Lizard snatched the package and shoved it down the front of his trousers with a smile. His trousers bulged. “Do you like my package?” He laughed, thrusting his hips forward.
Skelton rolled his eyes, and despite his reluctance to touch the man, he grabbed Lizard by his jacket and pulled him into the doorway, slamming him against the wall.
Lizard’s face flushed pale with fear, as he gasped for breath.
“You need to understand one thing. I’m the boss. You do as I say. If you keep acting like this, you’ll get picked up before you even get to the end of the street. Now I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy your chances inside when people find out you’ve been a copper’s snitch. Lags in prison that your careless words have put away.”
Skelton let the ominous silence settle between them.
It took a few moments before Lizard nodded.
“I was just kidding, man. Fucking chill the fuck out. I’m careful. You know that.”
Skelton smiled and released Lizard. “I’m glad you’re thinking my way. You see, I can make your life very difficult. But there are other people that you really don’t want to get on the wrong end of. People who’d make me look like Paddington Bear at a picnic. And whether or not you believe me, I would like you to live a long and happy life.” Skelton sneered.
