by Liz Mistry
Neha’s mumbled response was received with a snort from her sister. ‘Look, we’re here to plan a way to stop this fascist, Weston, from being elected, that’s all. Most of the group are Muslim, Neha.’
Again, Neha spoke in Bangla and took a step towards the door. Her sister grabbed her arm and spun her around. ‘For goodness’ sake. Bradford is our city. We have a fascist standing in the by-election, and three Asian men have been murdered. One of them our own father, useless piece of shit that he was. Anyway, we need to do something, don’t we?’
Neha closed her eyes and then, straightening her spine, gave an abrupt nod before moving back to join the group. Her sister glanced around and saw Shahid watching. ‘Seen enough, or do you want a fucking photo?’
Shahid splayed his hands in front of him and backed off. So, the murdered man found in Heaton Woods was their father. What the hell were these girls doing here, then, if their dad had just been killed?
Tuesday
Chapter 24
07:30 The Fort
Gus sat at his kitchen table, reading the news headlines. He was pissed off the tattooing had hit the news. However, he couldn’t waste precious time looking for the leak. It could have been any of the uniforms or SOCO staff. It’d be stupid to direct resources to pursue such a fruitless task. Still, he was fuming about it. He hated it when journalists, like Jez Hopkins, gave these killers validation by naming them. The Tattoo Killer! How bloody sensationalist. As ever, the killer was getting more attention than the victims and their families. Nancy would be well fed up with that. What the fuck! Nothing like egging the bastard on. He’d got Compo to securely email all his files to Professor Sebastian Carlton and hoped, in light of the news leak, he’d get a quick response from him. He really could do with his help.
Grinding his teeth, he rinsed his coffee cup and upended it on the drainer before putting the milk back into a near-empty fridge. He really needed to get to the shops. There was no excuse. There was a small Sainsbury’s around the corner. It’d take him all of two minutes to grab some bread and marg from there. He just couldn’t be bothered.
He glanced around. Everything was in its place in the kitchen. Not because he was domesticated, rather because the only items he used in this room were the kettle and the table. The state-of-the art oven that Gabriella, his ex-wife, had insisted they install, stood idle. The posh microwave was used only to heat up his lavender-scented heat pack when he’d overdone it jogging. In one corner, a crumpled pile of clothes dangled from the washer in a tangle of colours and whites. He couldn’t be bothered separating them, despite the odd mishap with bleeding dye. In the opposite corner, lay two empty dog bowls on a mat. Seeing them, Gus sighed. He really did miss Bingo. The sooner he got this case solved and went back to more regular hours, the sooner he could have his friend back.
Photos of Gabriella and Gus taken at various parties and events had long since been removed from the fridge and replaced with ones of Bingo looking goofy as a pup with a mega-sized bone in his mouth and more recent ones of him scampering about Heaton Woods. The only major addition, since Gabriella had wandered off into the proverbial sunset with his sister, was the dog flap in the back door. Gus had installed it when his father had first given him Bingo, and he’d secured the back garden and built a big kennel near the decking so his dog could have some freedom.
He admitted the rest of the house could do with a once-over with a hoover. What was the point? It was only him and Bingo rattling about the house … and Bingo didn’t care about a bit of dust. Once more, Gus glared at the offending article in the newspaper, and then, although he didn’t feel like it, he donned his jogging gear and set off.
Running to work at a steady pace through Lister Park and up Oak Lane was more of a punishment than anything this morning. Neither Mo’s nor The Chaat Café were open, so, when he arrived at The Fort, the only sustenance available were two leftover flapjacks his mum had dropped off the previous day. The fact that Compo, for some strange reason, had failed to gobble them up, was a pretty clear indication of how bad they actually were. Shrugging, Gus tipped them into the bin, then as an after-thought, shoogled the container until they fell to the bottom. There was no telling when his mum would call in, and the last thing he wanted was for her to be offended if she saw her lovingly prepared offerings in the rubbish.
Wiping sweat from his forehead, he started up the coffee machine and headed for the shower. He could survive on coffee for an hour; nonetheless, he made a point of leaving a message with the front desk for Alice to nip over for butties before briefing. No way could he conduct a briefing and hope to get any sense out of the team, and Compo in particular, if they didn’t have some nourishment in their bellies.
Letting the water pound down on his bowed head, Gus experienced an almost serene pleasure at the bite of the scalding water. Tossing his head, sodden hair bouncing around, he turned the heat down a notch and began to soap his body. His hand lingered on the scars that stood out pink against his tan skin. Each one told their own tale, some more emotionally painful than others.
Casting his mind back to the previous evening, he recalled how he’d interviewed Graeme Weston. It appeared that, between the time his wife last saw Razaul Ul Haq and the time his body was discovered, Graeme Weston was fully alibied. Shame, really, the guy was a massive prick, and Gus would have loved the satisfaction of locking the supercilious, racist, bastard up … at least for a while. Mind you, his alibi had to be verified, even if he was sure Weston was telling the truth, even if the man was an animal.
Gus had tried not to get wound up when Weston had referred to him as half-caste or when he referred to the ‘smaller’ brain capacity of ‘Pakis and blacks.’ The fact it had taken real effort not to react worried him. He’d encountered abuse before in his professional life and had dealt with it, taken it in his stride. Not that it didn’t bother him; of course, it did. The difference was it didn’t usually leave him so drained and lifeless afterwards. He knew he’d come close to planting one on Weston’s ugly little face, and worse still, he knew Alice suspected how close he’d come. This wasn’t like him. He was the one who kept his cool. The one who laughed in their face whilst maintaining an indefatigable calm. What was wrong with him? He was so tightly strung, he could snap. Maybe Dr Mahmood was right. Maybe he did need to attend some mindfulness classes or perhaps some of the meditation drop-in sessions at the Buddha Land Centre in Keighley.
He switched the shower off and stepping out, began to dry his body. He wasn’t even half dressed, when a hand holding a bacon butty appeared around the side of the cubicle. Despite himself, he grinned, as the tantalising smell hit his nostrils causing an involuntary gurgle in his stomach. He snatched the bread roll and took a bite, before saying, ‘You do know this is the men’s shower room, Al?’
‘Phoo, judging by the BO in most of the incident rooms, I suspect you’re the only one who ever uses the showers, so I reckon The Fort’s male population is safe. Besides which, none of them have got owt I’ve nae seen before.’ For the last part of the sentence, she adopted a Yorkshire accent that had Gus laughing aloud as he pulled his jumper on. Grabbing the remains of his sandwich, he stepped out and joined her on the other side of the cubicle. ‘Come on, Yorkshire lass, let’s get this briefing done.’
Minutes later, Gus pushed open the door to the open-plan space that doubled as both incident room and their offices and stepped inside. Before he’d taken a further step into the room, he was greeted by the words, ‘Unsub’s accelerating!’
What? A glance around told him that, apart from Alice, who had entered behind him, the room was empty. Then, he saw a head appear over the edge of his desk, followed seconds later by the full figure of Professor Sebastian Carlton. Well, that explained the use of the American term ‘unsub,’ anyway. Gus opened his mouth to ask him what he was doing crawling about on the floor. However, he refrained when Carlton held up a pen in silent explanation, before sliding it into the breast pocket of his too small, well-worn jacket
and tapping it into place.
Gus frowned. Three things about that struck him as strange. The first was the pen, now residing in pride of place in Sebastian Carlton’s pocket, was only a chewed up old Bic. The second was he was sure he had knocked that very pen off his desk when he’d dumped his bag on top earlier that morning. And thirdly, despite his myopic gaze and thick specs, Sebastian Carlton must have the eyesight of a crow to have spotted it in the first place. Professor Carlton, it appeared, was a pen-pincher.
Alice said, ‘Oops, I forgot to mention that Prof Carlton is here.’
Ignoring her amused grin, Gus moved over and poured coffee for all three of them. Handing Sebastian a steaming cup and trying not react to the psychologist’s luminous pink trainers, which seemingly had replaced his previous, equally luminous, green ones, he said, ‘So, to what do we owe this honour?’
Through bottle-thick lenses that sat lopsidedly on his nose – courtesy of the absence of one of the legs – Sebastian blinked at him. This made Gus focus on the remaining leg secured by mucky-looking duct tape. The man’s image was almost enough to convince Gus that even the lowest ranking police officers must gross a higher salary than the Prof. However, over the past few months, he’d come to know Sebastian Carlton and knew it wasn’t lack of money that made him dress that way, but rather a combination of lack of vanity and impatience with what he called the ‘foppery of materialism.’
‘Stupid bloody question, Gus, isn’t it? Where else would I be?’ He jerked a chubby thumb towards the crime boards. ‘Got ourselves a bloody serial killer, haven’t we!’ He thrust both hands into his trouser pockets and rocked on his heels, grinning his infectious grin. ‘Told Andrea I’d been called in urgently to assist the West Yorkshire Police.’
Gus knew Andrea was the Professor’s long-suffering colleague, for whom he had the utmost sympathy. Carlton’s grin widened, and his rocking increased in speed, reminding Gus of the retro Weeble his dad kept on his desk as a keepsake from his childhood in the 70s. He remembered both playing with the wobbly toy himself when he was a child and the refrain ‘Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down.’ He shook his head and re-focussed on what Sebastian was saying.
‘Landed her with my Level Four class. Can’t be bothered with their inane questions. Half of them will be bumped off the course by the end of first year, if I have my way. Can’t be bothered prancing about like a fucking peacock, strutting and preening and shaking my arse to attract a fucking hen, in front of a load of deadbeats who don’t listen.’
Blinking, Gus wished away the image that had immediately sprung to mind, whilst Alice giggled. She was rewarded with a myopic glare.
‘I’m not joking, you know. My time’s better spent drinking coffee, eating doughnuts and helping you lot.’ Carlton glanced around, his expression woebegone. ‘Well, it bloody would be, if there were any damn doughnuts!’
Smiling, Alice patted his arm. ‘Don’t worry, Sebastian, I’ll get you your doughnuts.’
Gus was fond of Sebastian after his minor involvement in their previous case. Now, he was glad to enlist the help of someone who knew a bit about serial killers. He’d be sure to clear it with Nancy, though, just to be sure. Sitting at his desk, he stretched his leg in front of him. He hadn’t warmed up properly before his morning jog, and now, he was suffering the consequences. His own fault. He continued to flex his leg to release the knots. ‘What can you tell us, Sebastian?’
Professor Carlton raised a finger and began pacing back and forth in front of the murder boards. Suspecting they were in for some key information, Gus turned to Alice. ‘Round up Compo and Sampson, will you. Thought they’d have been here by now … oh, and get someone to nip to Tesco for doughnuts for ‘his nibs.’ I know they sell those Krispy Kreme ones he likes so much.’
As Alice left to order the doughnuts for their guest, Compo and Sampson came into the room. Sampson wore his usual grey suit and tie. This morning, his hair was still damp as if he was newly out of the shower, and he brought with him a wave of Paco Rabanne’s Million aftershave. Compo, on the other hand, brought in a waft of bacon butties and fresh air. Today, he wore a Doors Riders on the Storm T-shirt over a pair of cargo pants and an aubergine coloured beanie hat. Gus smiled as Alice walked back in. His team was complete, and he was happy, well, happier than he’d been for a while … albeit short-staffed. He could feel the niggling pinch of a headache beginning. That was all he needed.
‘Right,’ said Sebastian at last. He turned around, his face lighting up when he saw Compo. ‘The cavalry’s arrived, I see,’ he said, eliciting a blush from the lad. For some reason, the two men had hit it off. Gus shrugged; nothing strange about that really. After all, they were both eccentrics and geniuses in their field. Not surprising they had become friends.
When Sebastian didn’t expand on his previous ‘right,’ Gus prompted him, ‘And?’
With a shake of the head, Sebastian paused, before speaking. ‘The unsub’s one sick fucker!’
Sampson almost managed to hide his grin. Alice bit her lip and avoided Gus’ gaze, whilst Compo flicked his hand, making a sharp cracking sound with his fingers and said, ‘I told you so! Didn’t I, Sampson? Didn’t I say he was one sick fucker?’
Unable to contain his grin any longer, Sampson nodded. Gus, however, was less amused. ‘What the fuck, Sebastian? Is that an official diagnosis?’ He jumped from the desk and ran his fingers through his dreads. ‘I was expecting a bit more than that, I have to say … oh, and while you’re at it, can you quit with the damn Americanisms too. It’s distracting.’
Pursing his lips, his tone calm, Sebastian said, ‘No, it’s not an official diagnosis. It’s a human one. However, diagnosing this person isn’t going to help catch them. It’s clear the unsub’s a psychopath with narcissistic leanings. Hell, where does that get you? No, what we need to be doing is working out what motivates him … and no, I can’t give up on the Americanisms. They’re inbuilt now, so put up and shut up, or I’ll put in a bill for my expenses. Then where would your flimsy budget be, huh?’
Gus’ budget wouldn’t stretch to paying a specialist consultant, which meant he had to keep Sebastian sweet. He shouldn’t have been so snappy, anyway. What did it matter what they labelled the killer? His deeds were just as deadly, whether the Prof called him an unsub or Larry the effing Lamb. So, realising he was fighting a losing battle, Gus put out his hands palms upward in a placating gesture. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll put up with unsub. Get to the point, eh? Time’s running on.’
Shuffling closer to the boards, Sebastian tapped each of the three photos in turn. ‘Usually, serial killers target people within their own racial grouping. I would say, in this case, we can be sure that this unsub is not doing that. Clearly, the tattoo torture and the presence of the swastika indicate a racial motive, so I would say the unsub is most certainly white. Which is good, in that it eliminates a huge section of the local population.’
Having already deduced that for himself, Gus wished Sebastian would hurry up. In an effort to curb his instinctive, impatient snort, he took a sip of coffee and tried swallow his frustration.
Meanwhile, Sebastian strode back and forth, as if considering his next words. ‘That said, he doesn’t seem to have a religious bias. Manish Parmar was Hindu and of Indian descent, Asim Farooq was Muslim of Pakistani descent, and Razaul was of Bangladeshi descent, also Muslim. Whether that’s because the victim is ignorant of the cultural and religious differences or whether he just doesn’t care, I can’t tell you … yet!’
Yeah, yeah, got that, thought Gus. Then, intercepting a look from Alice told him he’d sighed a bit too loudly. He moulded his lips into a semblance of a smile and directed it at Sebastian. ‘So, is racism his only motive? Seems a bit extreme to me.’
‘You’re right, Gus. Quite clearly tattooing the victim on the groin area is likely to carry a sexual motive. It’s possible our man’s subduing his own sexual bias, or perhaps he’s impotent. He certainly appears to have a problem with Asian men who a
re either bisexual, promiscuous or gay.’
‘Couldn’t his message be about procreation? And why lay them out in a cross shape?’ Alice studied the crime scene photos of the three victims as she spoke.
‘Again, a possibility. The cross position may be about Christianity being the superior religion. Another slight against the victims’ religions.’
Sebastian turned back to the board. He pointed to a correlation map Compo had configured. ‘The proximity of the dump sites in Harden, Haworth and Heaton indicate local knowledge, and I would be looking for a kill spot in this area.’ He drew a circle with his finger encompassing Baildon, Shipley, Queensbury and Keighley. ‘The choice of sites beginning with an ‘H,’ although alliterative, is unlikely to have any bearing for the killer.’ He paused. ‘Mind you, should the next victim also be dumped in a place beginning with the letter ‘H,’ I may revisit this.’ By the time Sebastian finished speaking, Compo had inserted the circle via his computer onto the map, earning an appreciative smile from Sebastian.
Gus rose and went over to closer study the map. This was good. At least they had an area to focus on now.
‘Okay, so that’s the supposed area for the kill spot. Does that mean he also lives in that locality?’ asked Sampson.
Sebastian grimaced. ‘I’m inclined to say yes, although at this point, I wouldn’t want you to limit your investigation based on that. I suspect our killer lives near both kill and dump sites, however, it is only a suspicion. On the other hand, I’m nearly certain the kill site is close to the dump site.’
He splayed his hands. ‘This is based purely on the practicalities of subduing a victim, torturing them, killing them and finally dumping them, all in the space of a few hours. Believe it or not, the whole process will be exhausting for the killer, and he’ll want to minimise the energy he has to expend. Our unsub has a vehicle … although you already knew that.’
