by Linda Regan
Max Pettifer wasn’t a popular man. His greying hair was combed into a whiff of a quiff on top of his head, in a failed attempt to hide the fact that he was both balding and coming up to retirement age. He had grey eyes, a reddish tinge around his nose, and a black sense of humour. Pettifer was still head of Forensics, but only working part-time these days as he fast headed towards his pension. Today he was working, covering for the pretty and popular Phoebe Aston, who was now away for the second time on maternity leave.
Georgia took a deep breath when she saw him. Working as a pathologist one could excuse dark jokes at the expense of the victim, but Max’s cynicism and the dull drollery with which he delivered his so-called funnies was never enough to bag a smile from any of the murder team. It was difficult to know who disliked him the most, Georgia or DCI Banham – both had good reason. He was the sort of man who went to all lengths to be unhelpful. He never made any assumption or speculation, and would never even give them a hint of what they might expect to hear about how the victim was murdered, until confirmation from the over-worked and always behind schedule forensic laboratory was official.
Georgia often felt the killer could have gone to the other side of the world, had a dozen plastic surgery operations, even undertaken a complete sex change by the time Max got around to delivering any helpful information. The only thing Georgia could think of to be thankful for, in the case of Max Pettifer, was that Stephanie Green had never fancied jumping his bones.
The cadaver was curled in a foetal position over a pool of congealed blood. His arms were covered in stab wounds. The wall behind him was patterned in blood. It looked as if the boy had leaned against the wall and then slid down as he tried, and failed, to stem the blood from his many cuts.
‘A stabbing?’ Georgia asked, lifting her white forensic mouth mask to allow herself the freedom to speak, and tentatively moving as near to the scene as she dared without hindering the blue-overalled forensic officers who were busily working around scene.
Max shrugged in his usual non-committal way. Already he was an irritant. Georgia could only hope that Phoebe Aston wouldn’t get too content with motherhood; the murder department missed her.
She turned to the exhibits officer. ‘Any footprints?’
The exhibit officer, holding a video camera on a lead around his neck, shook his head. ‘Nothing at all, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Not that I can see.’
Georgia looked up to see Stephanie hurrying along the estate path, pulling the bluebell-coloured Forensics suit up and around her large body as she hurried. Her hair was already half out of the obligatory plastic cap detectives had to wear at the scene of a crime, and the white mouth-mask was hanging around her neck.
‘Glad I’ve had lunch,’ she said looking down at the pool of blood, then flicking a piss-taking smile at Max, and adding, ‘And I wasn’t referring to you, darling.’ She stretched one side of her mouth downward, and winked at Georgia to share her disappointment at seeing Max at the scene. Georgia was staring at the streaks of black grease jotted over Stephanie’s face, but decided not to comment. She discreetly tapped her pocket, checking, yet again, that she had her hand-gel with her.
‘I guess we half expected this, didn’t we?’ Stephanie said letting out a noisy sigh. ‘Gang battles for custody of the Aviary Estate territory. No one actually runs it right now that we know of.’
‘This isn’t quite Aviary territory though,’ Georgia reminded her. ‘It’s just on the edge.’
‘Battles starting over the territory control then,’ Stephanie suggested.
‘South London Rulers?’ Georgia said, leaning in and pointing to the bloodstained ‘SLR’ tattooed on his forearm. ‘And he certainly looks Turkish.’ She then lowered her voice to Stephanie, ‘My informant lives on the Aviary. Let’s pay her a visit.’
Stephanie leaned over the cadaver, examining it carefully. ‘His finger has a very deep cut and there are cigarette-shaped burns on the back of his hands.’
‘Not what killed him,’ Max said abruptly.
‘He was tortured then,’ Stephanie said.
‘Or a punishment,’ Georgia added.
‘Do we have any identification? She asked the forensic officer who had been kneeling at the back of the body.
‘Nothing in any pockets,’ he replied.
‘And robbed too,’ Georgia said. She was about to tell them to take DNA and run it through the file, when she heard Banham calling to her. He was at the cordon signing the book. It was common knowledge that Banham wasn’t good around corpses, especially bloodied ones. He’d been known to throw up at many a murder scene, giving Max Pettifer fuel for his ‘jokes’. Banham was with Alison Grainger, both were dressed in the bluebell forensic suits as they headed down the path. Georgia noticed Stephanie’s expression.
‘I think you’ve missed your chance with the DCI,’ Georgia whispered to her. ‘Looks like DI Grainger will be shadowing us on this one.’
Alison Grainger was tall and skinny with extremely long legs. With her pale skin and reddish-brown hair there was possibly Celtic blood in her genes, and her reputed fiery temper would back that up. Right now her hair was furled into a blue plastic cap, accentuating her wide-set, grey-green eyes, which currently bore an apprehensive gaze.
‘You all know DI Grainger,’ Banham said as he approached. ‘I’m delighted to say she’s back with us in Murder after her time in Sapphire Unit.’
Max Pettifer looked up. ‘I heard you hadn’t the belly for this lark anymore,’ he said, catching Banham’s angry glare but ignoring it. ‘Well it’s not a bad’un for your first one back. No maggots or decay, it’s fresh and doesn’t stink the place out.’
‘How specific can you be for time of death?’ Georgia asked him, quickly changing the subject. ‘What would you say, about three hours ago?’
Max shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Someone must have seen something,’ Stephanie said looking up and around at the tower blocks that surrounded them. As was usual around the estate when someone was murdered, all the residents had crowded onto their balconies for a good look, but if questioned by the police, no one ever claimed to know or have seen anything.
‘Who phoned it in?’ Banham asked.
‘Anonymous, of course,’ the exhibits officer told him.
‘It’s only three o’clock now,’ Georgia said looking up at the residents who were leaning over their walkways looking down at the proceedings. ‘Lots of people would have been coming and going, this is one of the main entrances to the whole estate.’
‘I’ll instruct uniform to start the door-to-door,’ Stephanie said hurrying off to find the police sergeant in charge.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Banham said hurrying after her.
Georgia looked at Alison. Both knew he was going round the corner to throw up. Neither said a word.
Banham was back within minutes, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief. He had told Georgia once, in confidence, about the murder of his first wife, how he had come home and found her and their eleven-month-old baby axed to death. Georgia had her own skeletons. She more than understood his.
Banham stood next to Georgia and lowered his voice. ‘I’m putting Alison with you on this one,’ he said to her. ‘You’re all right with that, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, guv, totally,’ she said. ‘I still get Sergeant Green though, don’t I?’
‘Of course.’ He turned to check that Alison wasn’t in hearing distance. She wasn’t, she was talking to some of the forensic team a little way away from where they stood. ‘She’s been away a while, and she’ll need a close eye kept on her. I’d like you to report all back to me.’
Georgia didn’t answer.
‘She’ll need to be updated on all that’s happened around this area,’ he said. ‘You have strong contacts down here, and a good informant, so I’m putting all this in your hands.’
‘That’s fine, guv.’
‘I’ll want to be kept in the loop with everything.’
; ‘Guv.’
‘We have to remember she lost one of her closest friends in the line of duty, and it’ll be a case now of taking everything one step at a time.’
‘With respect, sir, I’m a detective, not a nanny.’
Banham’s blue eyes bored into her. ‘You’ve been a very good influence on that Alysha Achter. You‘ve done a lot to get her back on her feet and that hasn’t gone unnoticed,’ he said. ‘Some might say that would be a social worker’s job. Alysha was a criminal, Alison is one of us.’
Georgia swallowed her anger. ‘Alysha Achter is my informant,’ she said evenly. ‘She became a criminal out of desperation. I helped her because she was alone and underage, and now she pays us back by giving us information that leads to the prosecution of criminals.’
‘She gives nothing. We pay her well for it,’ Banham reminded Georgia.
‘This estate has the highest crime figures in the whole of Greater London. It took work to get Alysha on side. In case you hadn’t noticed, no one else around here gives us the time of day.’
‘I have noticed,’ he said curtly. ‘And again I say, all credit to you.’ He kept his eyes on her for a silent moment then he said. ‘Please keep a close eye on DI Grainger and report everything back to me, I’ll consider it a favour. I’ll see you at the briefing. Don’t be late.’
As he turned to go, she quickly asked, ‘Sir? I am Senior Investigating Officer on this case, I presume?’
It took a few seconds before he answered. ‘No. Alison Grainger is the more experienced officer out of the two of you, but you have the contacts and knowledge of this estate, so I’m making you joint SIOs.’ Again his eyes bored into her.
She knew arguing the point was futile. The man was in love with DI Grainger, so she nodded. ‘Guv.’
Banham turned and walked away.
Max Pettifer looked up from his place of kneeling beside the cadaver. ‘You can understand why people want to kill sometimes, can’t you?’ he said with a chuckle.
Three
14.00
Nearly seventy South London Rulers were standing in a run-down garage. It was situated on their territory, but within yards of the Aviary. Harisha Celik had put out the call and all had obeyed.
A lot of the gang members were Turkish, many of them related. Trent and Bilaboo, two of the gang’s high-ranking lieutenants, were also first cousins of Harisha, as Burak Kaya had been; all sharing the same olive skin, black hair, dark, angry eyes, and fiery tempers. There were also a dozen Chinese boys in the gang, a few Pakistanis, a few mixed-race boys, and many white soldiers. Harisha Celik’s ruthless reputation went before him. He was known to make big money, smuggling drugs and arms from Europe, and all wanted to be part of that powerful empire.
He had slyly teamed up with the Chinese boys, the ones with strong European contacts, for the sole purpose of furthering his connections for machete and samurai dealers to Europe, deciding it was cleverer to work with the Chinese, rather than against them, for now. The Chinese were tough fighters, they knew how to use samurai swords and machetes and could teach the soldiers a lot. Harisha wanted that knowledge, and their contacts. Up until recently the SLR had survived by using knives and guns, but since they had machetes at their disposal their street cred had upped. Harisha saw the interest from other street gangs and wanted to be the one to make money from importing them. He knew the Chinese had the connections, but not the nous, so he befriended them; he intended to drop the bastards when he had got all he could from them. The Chinese and Vietnamese were also experts at growing cannabis. Harisha intended building a supply of cannabis factories, so he had no intention of falling out with them, yet. Cheap grass was a good way of pulling in youngsters and setting them on the road to heroin addiction, the brown or the food as it was known on the streets, which made him big money.
He had drawn the young Chinese boys into his gang by telling them they were now family to him. Their own families were all busy working twenty hours a day serving pork balls in tiny takeaway joints, so the boys had nothing to do but hang around the streets. Harisha offered them protection around the south of London, told them there was more to life, that his gang would show them how to make big money. When their usefulness ran out, they’d end up at the bottom of the Thames, but for now he welcomed them. In truth he didn’t give a shit for any of his gang, except his blood cousins Bilaboo and Trent, and Burak Kaya, who he had just been told had been found murdered.
He stood in the lock-up, facing his crew, looking his usual cool self in dark glasses and a black leather jacket opened to display a white T-shirt tucked into tight jeans. The jeans were decorated with a glittering imitation diamond-studded belt to match the diamond he wore in his left ear. His face, like his body, was thin. He wore two thick gold chains around his neck and a large diamond signet ring on his little finger.
Melek Yismaz stood at his side, shivering with shock and crying loudly. Her noise was annoying Harisha, who up until now had found her highly desirable. Her perfect figure, long legs, and long dark hair, peroxide intermittently streaked through it, drove him mad with lust. In the past he had shared his girls with his cousins, to keep the interest going for himself, but not Melek, he was jealous and possessive with her, and after her gang-bang initiation into the SLR he had allowed no one near her. Right now, though, as she stood by his side wailing, his attraction was fading fast.
Every time he asked her to tell the crew exactly what had happened that morning, what had led to Burak being shanked and murdered, she was unable to answer through her wailing. This was embarrassing him. The girl should show him respect. If he told her to do something she should fucking do it. Enough was enough. He curled his ring-embellished fingers into a fist and quickly punched her, hard, three times, on the side of the head.
Her head hit the concrete wall behind her, and she immediately went silent. It had done the trick. He snaked his arm around her neck and pulled her into him and kissed her gently on the cheek.
‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Stop crying.’
He turned back to his gang. ‘Burak is murdered. Murdered by those skanky Alley Cat Crew bitches,’ he shouted angrily. ‘They have started a war, and we are going to make them wish they never had. Death is too good for what they have done to our lieutenant.’ He raised his voice. ‘If they think they can steal our machetes.’ He looked at the Chinese boys, who were holding their long sharp knives up in support. ‘Our boys risked everything to bring in them in from Europe. They’ve been stolen along with thousands of pounds of brown.’ He became louder and angrier. ‘Those filthy whores have killed Burak, and taken our weapons and drugs.’
All the crew were now waving weapons and verbalising their agreement and anger. Harisha went even louder.
‘And now those bitches think they can deal, on my patch, and say it is theirs!’
Melek started sobbing again. He glanced quickly and irritably at Melek and then brought his attention back to addressing his gang. ‘I want those whores brought here to me, alive. We will roast them on a spit like the pigs they are, slowly. They will burn, for revenge for our Burak.’
As his crew cheered, he snaked his arm around Melek’s neck, and pulled her in to him and stroked her hair.
‘Why you cry so much, my darling,’ he said to her. ‘You are safe now, my angel.’ He kissed the top of her head softly, and whispered through gritted teeth, ‘Shut up.’
Melek looked at him, her make-up had run down her cheeks and stained her face. ‘I thought they were going to hurt me too,’ she told him. ‘I begged them to stop, but they didn’t. I tried to get him away and back here, but he died in my arms. I had to leave him when I ran to find you,’ she cried again.
He lifted his sunglasses and stared at her. Up until now he had been mesmerised by her mean eyes, her long legs, and the long flowing hair that tumbled down her back to her arse. He liked that she would do everything he asked her to, sexually.
He pulled his arm away from her neck and turned her chin so she faced him.
When he saw the fear in her wet and frightened eyes he felt his cock harden and wanted to fuck her right there and then.
‘You are my woman, no one would dare hurt you,’ he said to her. ‘I will look after you.’ She sniffed, and fluttered her wet lashes.
He turned back to his soldiers. ‘Fucking pussies,’ he spat. ‘They have terrified my woman and killed my lieutenant.’ He took an angry breath. ‘One by one they will die, a slow and painful death.’
The soldiers raised knives and weapons. Some pulled their dark blue SLR bandanas up over their faces as they cheered in agreement.
Harisha opened the box behind him and took a large block of cocaine from it, holding it up so all could see it. ‘And rewards for whoever brings them in.’ He turned back to Melek. ‘Did they use names to each other?’
She looked a little muddled, as she tried to think.
‘Describe them. How many?’ he pushed.
‘Four.’
‘One was Alysha Achter, Alley Cat cunt herself, right?
‘Right,’ she nodded.
‘And the others?’
As Melek described the tall, brown-skinned, clumsy, loud-mouthed lieutenant, one of the soldiers shouted, ‘Panther!’ Then ‘ Tink!’ as she talked about the skinny runt with the pink hair and heavy pink boots. ‘Long brown hair with green streaks and a green nose stud and matching nails’: ‘Lox!’.
Harisha put the coke back in its box and lifted his own perfectly manicured hands, placing them against the air in front of him as a sign of a fait accomplice. ‘Burak will be avenged,’ he said. ‘Next bit of business is the feds. There’s a tent been put up where Burak died. It is guarded by feds. They’ve taken Burak’s body, and they’ll be belling his family.’ He looked all around at his gang, taking them all in, but his eyes rested on the Chinese boys. ‘They will be bothering us soon. No one says nothing. You say you’ve never heard of him.’ He turned to Bilaboo and Trent. ‘Except us. We say he was family, but we never hung out much with him, we don’t know nothing of his tribe.’
