by Lee Weeks
‘I’m only looking after it for someone – it will be gone soon.’
‘Who are you looking after it for?’
‘What?’ He looked like he didn’t want to say.
‘Is it Mahmet?’
‘He’s coming to get it in a couple of days,’ said the grandfather.
‘If we need to come in, Mr Balik, we need that dog under control and I don’t believe it is.’
‘Yes. It’s a good dog. It just doesn’t like strangers.’
‘Tell Mahmet we need to speak to him, Mr Balik. Tell him we will come back with a dog handler and we will have this dog destroyed if it’s found to be a dangerous type, which I’m pretty sure is the case. Are you listening, Mr Balik?’
‘Yes. Yes.’ He was struggling to keep the dog back as he closed the door.
Carter talked through the closed door.
‘You need to get help with that dog, Mr Balik.
‘Poor old fella,’ Carter said as they walked away back down the corridor. ‘We’ll start knocking on doors at the other end of the corridor. Mahmet is obviously still around if he’s left his monster of a dog here with his granddad. He can’t have gone far.’
Chapter 7
Dr Kahn had finished cataloguing Olivia Grantham’s external injuries on the body diagram by the time Carter and Willis got through the traffic and were suited up for the post-mortem.
Kahn greeted them, apologized for having to start without them, then nodded to his assistant, Mark, that he was ready for him to make the first incision. Kahn was a patient man and a lot slower than Dr Harding. He did not spend his time irritably tapping his pen or scalpel whilst waiting for Mark to get a move on. Willis and Carter hovered nearby. Willis was looking over Mark’s shoulder, watching what he was doing, out of interest. Kahn had the kind of demeanour where nothing bothered him. He was semi-retired now and looked forward to being called in to help when needed; it got him out from under his wife’s feet, so everyone was happy.
Mark picked up a scalpel from the tray and leant across the body as he started at the left-inside shoulder and guided the knife with just the right amount of pressure as he cut through the skin and fat. He made another incision from the right shoulder, down to meet his first at the sternum, then he applied more pressure to cut in a straight line down to the pubic bone. He ran the knife over the cut again, in a couple of places where the layer of fat was thicker, and then opened the skin, cutting as he went, as if he were filleting a fish, exposing her breastplate and a mass of wobbly intestines. He stopped with the rib shears in his hand and pulled out an implant from inside the breast.
‘A 34 Double D, I would say – silicone; bad choice. Saline’s so much more natural.’ He turned it over in his hands like a dead jellyfish.
Dr Kahn came forward to clamp off the lower intestine and remove it in one block. He examined the cavity as he cut out her spleen, removed the membrane and held it in his hand.
‘Damaged beyong repair.’ He passed judgement on it before cutting out her liver and making cuts at one-centimetre intervals along it. ‘Bruising – otherwise a healthy-looking liver. But there is bleeding in the peritoneal cavity. She has taken quite a beating.’
Mark snapped through each rib with the shears and lifted out the breastplate whole.
‘Any sign of clots?’ asked Kahn as he came forward to look at the heart and lungs. Mark shook his head. ‘Mind if I take a look?’
Mark loved this side of working with Kahn. He was treated with respect – his opinion mattered a lot more than it did with Harding. But Harding was a genius and if Mark died under suspicious curcumstances, he’d want Harding to find out how and why.
Kahn waited until Mark had finished cutting open Olivia Grantham’s neck and then he watched him pick up the electric saw and carfully cut into the incision around her skull. Kahn opened it with a twist of a small chisel, used like a key to pop out the skull section, and then he cut through the thick white membrane and paused as he leant over to study the brain at eye level.
‘We have already photographed the injury to her skull from the outside.’ He handed the piece of skull to Mark, who began stripping out the membrane. ‘But now we will get a better look at it.’ He was still squatting in front of the exposed brain. He wiped it with his hand.
‘I see damage here that corresponds with the position of the fracture-skull injury. This could have been enough to kill her – we will see when we get the brain out.’
Kahn took a pair of curved scissors from the tray and reached inside, to cut through the optic nerves and prise the brain out of its shell, cutting through the brain stem.
Willis was studying the skull portion with Mark.
‘It’s a crack of four centimetres straight and then a right-angled crush injury at the end of that,’ she said as she took a photograph. Mark drew it on the diagram. Whilst he was doing that, Willis was sketching the dimensions of the wound.
‘It looks like a square-shaped instrument. It’s a tool, a hammer maybe.’
‘Yeah – not sure . . .’ She was looking at her drawing. ‘It’s left a rim shape, a space in the middle where there is no bruising.’
‘Yes –’ He beamed at Willis – ‘you’re right.’
Kahn coughed. They turned to see him holding the brain in both his hands. ‘Mark . . . please take this from me.’
As they cleaned up, Carter got a call from Robbo.
‘A group of homeless men have been spotted by a patrol car; the officers haven’t approached but they say a couple look about right for the two we’re looking for. They want to know what you want them to do.’
‘Where are they?’
‘In the area in front of Shadwell Station. Another thing – they’ve spotted Mahmet Balik nearby. He was seen talking to the rough sleepers outside the chemist’s shop earlier on.’
‘Okay. We’re on our way. Tell the patrol to make themselves scarce. I don’t want them to run.’
They finished up fast at the mortuary and drove down to Shadwell. They parked nearby and continued on foot towards the entrance to the station.
‘Guv?’
‘Yeah – I’ve seen them.’ A group of men were sitting against the station wall.
‘Can we have a word?’ Carter said as they approached, and were met with a volley of abuse from the bald man sitting at the end of the group. As he turned away from them, a blue web tattoo was visible on his neck.
‘Oy – big mouth – watch your language,’ Carter said as he got near and pointed to the carrier bag. ‘What’s in there?’
He already knew what was in it. White Ace cider, sold from under the counter of newsagents’ and grocery stores. The group began making moves to leave.
A new man approached from an adjoining street. He had a light collar on his jacket and was carrying a chemist’s carrier bag. Carter saw him at the same time as Willis did and she edged left of the group. The man dropped his bag and bolted through the station and then through the open ticket barrier. They chased after him. As Willis sprinted over the railway bridge, she lost eye contact with the platforms below until she looked down from the top of the stairs to see the man running along the tracks and Carter keeping pace on the platform above.
She flew back down the way she’d come and sprinted along the platform, shouting at people to get back. The oncoming train was so close that she could see the train driver’s panic-stricken expression.
Carter had jumped onto the track and was trying to drag the man to the side, shouting at him to move. Willis was within a few metres of Carter when the man gave up any movement and sank to his knees. Her voice was drowned out by the noise of the train passing. She reached out ready to grab Carter as she turned her face from the whoosh of air, the squeal of metal on metal and the scream of pain.
Chapter 8
‘Guv? You okay?’
Carter stood outside the station with his head bowed as the man was being loaded into the ambulance.
‘Christ . . . I should have been able
to lift him off the track,’ he said – angry with himself.
‘He was a dead weight, guv. You did your best. He’s still breathing. He might live.’
‘Yeah – hope so.’ Willis looked at Carter’s face. He was ghostly pale. ‘Pretty sure that’s Toffee. He matches the description and he definitely didn’t want to talk to us.’ Carter leant over, catching his breath.
‘Think so, guv. Looks like his mates have gone. Shall we get back in the car and search for them or do you need a coffee first, guv?’
‘No.’ He looked up and smiled. ‘I need a Scotch . . . and a bloody big one.’ He straightened up. ‘That’s enough of an adrenalin rush for one day. Ring Robbo and make sure Toffee’s kept under guard at the hospital. I want to talk to him as soon as he’s able and if he makes it. The patrols will have more luck finding Toffee’s mates than we will. You’re right – I need a cup of coffee.’ Carter took off his coat and began beating the dust out of it with the back of his hand. ‘I don’t reckon these men will have gone far.’ Carter looked forlornly at the dirt on his sleeve. ‘Christ Almighty – if there’s one thing I hate!’
They stopped at a café Carter knew well – he ordered aubergine pasta bake whilst Willis had a burger and fries.
He stared at her eating. It was something that both repulsed and fascinated him. ‘You eat like it’s your last meal and you’ve only got seconds to eat it,’ Carter said as he picked at his food.
Willis didn’t answer; she opened the burger bun and squirted on more ketchup. Carter’s phone rang whilst they were eating. He talked and ate one-handed.
‘Robbo? How did they say he is? Both legs? Shit! Yes, I’m fine. Have the patrols located his mates yet? What about Balik? No, we’ll keep looking when we finish here: we’ll call in at a few more homeless hostels in the area, and then we’ll head over to the hospital.’
He finished his call and continued to watch Willis eat.
‘I thought you were going to take a holiday after Christmas, but you came straight back to work. What happened – you changed your mind?’
She shrugged as she licked ketchup from her fingers.
‘I thought you and Tina had it all planned. You were off to Cancún or somewhere? To drink buckets of booze and party hard?’
‘I decided to wait a while.’
‘For what?’
She pushed a chip around the salt on her plate.
‘Just wasn’t the right time.’
‘You okay?’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘Don’t “yes, guv” me, Ebony Willis. I want to know what’s up with my partner.’
She stopped eating and pushed her plate away.
‘My mum tried to commit suicide.’ She made fleeting eye contact with him and then she took a sip of her Coke.
‘Shit. When?’
‘Christmas Day.’
‘Jesus . . . I didn’t know she wasn’t coping. Sorry – I’ve been so preoccupied with my dad and his cancer, I had no idea, Eb.’
‘She’s been self-harming.’
‘Shit, Eb. Any idea why?’
‘I missed some appointments to go and see her. I’ve been busy and . . . I found excuses, I guess.’
‘Stop there, Eb. . .’ He leant in to emphasize. ‘Do not blame yourself for anything your mother does or doesn’t do. She’s a past master at manipulation.’
‘Yeah. I know. But she is still my mum and I should have gone to see her.’
‘Okay, go and see her then. Can I suggest you go soon and get it over with?’
‘We’re busy.’
‘I can spare you for a couple of hours.’
Chapter 9
‘Is he awake?’ Carter asked the nurse escorting them through to Intensive Care later that day – she had a sweet fresh face that belied the fact she’d been out partying the night before and was chewing gum to hide the smell of alcohol. Her badge said Ivy Miller.
‘Has he said what his name is, Nurse?’
‘Yes. Michael Hitchens. He came round briefly before he went down to theatre – he’s had both legs amputated from the knee but he has complications that we are keeping an eye on. He sustained a head injury. He asked me to ring the man who runs the hostel where he stays sometimes, to come and be with him.’
‘Simon Smith?’
‘Yes. That’s right. I asked the front desk to phone him.’
Carter glanced at Willis. She knew what he was thinking.
‘Can we see him straight away, please, Ivy? Can I call you Ivy?’ Carter tried his caring smile that said:
‘We’re the good guys, help us out here.’
‘Yes. Okay. Just take it gently.’ She hesitated. ‘When I got him undressed he had a lot of money on him.’
‘How much?’
‘Two hundred and fifity pounds and some change.’ Inside the room, there were so many connecting wires and tubes from machine to patient that it was difficult to get close to him. Carter walked round to the left-hand side and watched as Ivy checked the machines.
‘Michael?’ Carter said. Willis waited at the foot of the bed. ‘Toffee? Is that your name?’
He nodded his response. Ivy leant in to speak to him.
‘There are police officers in the room, Michael; they want to talk to you. Do you think you can?’ His eyes fluttered, he looked at her, and then followed her gaze to Carter.
He nodded, cleared his throat as he said, ‘Hope you aren’t hurt?’ to Carter. He struggled to talk, but when he did, he had the voice of a retired English teacher. Ivy fed a drinks tube into the side of his mouth to help with his dryness.
Carter shook his head. ‘No, I’m not hurt. I’m just sorry I couldn’t get you off the track in time. Are you the man who made the call about the dead woman, Toffee?’
‘Excuse me?’ Simon Smith opened the door and stepped inside. He looked annoyed to see Carter and Willis. He walked straight round to the opposite side of the bed to Carter and took Toffee’s hand into his.
‘Toffee? Is there anything I can do for you? Do you want the officers to leave?’ Toffee shook his head.
‘We need to talk to you about Olivia Grantham who, died on Parade Street,’ Carter persisted, and Ivy flashed a concerned look at him as machines registered Toffee’s heartbeat climb. ‘You had Olivia’s phone. Did you see what happened to her?’
Toffee turned away from Carter and sucked on the drinks tube again.
Toffee’s eyes stayed on Simon, who held tightly to his hand. He was struggling to breathe.
‘I tried to help her, I swear. It all went wrong.’ He looked at Simon.
Simon nodded. ‘It’s okay, Toffee. You don’t have to say anything.’
Toffee screwed up his face in pain as he tried to swallow. The nurse fed the drinks tube back into his mouth. She looked anxiously at Carter. Willis was watching the machines. Toffee’s pulse was climbing fast. Carter leant nearer to him. Toffee kept his eyes fixed on Simon.
Carter spoke softly. ‘Did you get paid to kill her, Toffee?’
Simon looked towards the nurse to stop the conversation. ‘Don’t talk any more, Toffee, rest. Nurse?’
Toffee shook his head, agitated.
‘I tried to protect her but . . .’ His voice rasped as he struggled to talk and breathe. He clutched at Simon’s hand. ‘Find Mason.’ The machines around Toffee squealed out their alarms and flatlined. Ivy pressed the emergency buzzer. She pulled Simon out of the way and began resuscitating. Carter and Willis moved to the back of the room as the resusc team arrived and Ivy ushered the detectives and Simon outside.
‘You have to wait in the corridor, I’m sorry.’
‘Ivy – we need the clothes that he came in with,’ said Carter.
She nodded. ‘I’ll get them for you. What about the rest of his belongings? The money?’
‘We’ll take those too, please.’
They were left alone in the corridor as they watched through the window at the frantic efforts to keep Toffee alive.
Carter turned to Simo
n. ‘Mason, the lad with the dog? That’s who he’s talking about?’
Simon shook his head. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘He seemed to think you’d know. I hear Toffee is a father figure to some of the younger ones, Mason included. He asked you to look for him. He must think you have a chance of finding him. If it’s the same lad we saw – he definitely needs help with the injuries to his face.’
‘I don’t know Mason or where he is. I wouldn’t know where to look. But, I’ll do what I can – talk to the regulars. I’ll do my best.’
Carter wasn’t having it.
‘Did you ever see him with large amounts of money on him before?’
‘No. Never.’
‘So you’d be surprised to learn he came in here with two hundred and fifty quid?’
‘It’s a big surprise.’
‘No idea where he got it?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’
Someone must have an idea; one of his friends must know something. We need your cooperation with this. They obviously talk to you. Someone’s going to be wanting to get it off their chest – they might even be looking for the money. Find Spike for us. He must know Toffee’s involvement. Tell them there’s a reward for information. I’ll pay fifty quid to the person who tells me something useful.’
They looked back through the window into Toffee’s room.
The machines had come to life again.
Ivy brought Toffee’s belongings and clothes in a bag for Carter. He signed for them.
A blonde-haired woman wearing the detective’s unnofficial uniform of black trousers and a dark jacket came towards them down the corridor.
‘This is Detective Constable Zoe Blackman,’ Carter said to Simon as she got near, before walking her back down the corridor to talk with her privately.
‘We need samples: hair from all sites, DNA, fingerprints. As much as we can get. You’ll be all right to stay the night?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s our prime murder suspect in there.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And get friendly with Simon Smith. He’s lying or at least he’s not telling us everything he could. I want to know why.’
