Broken Dolls

by Sarah Flint

  On nearing the estate, Razor slipped his trademark razor blades out from his wallet and repositioned the knife from his trousers to a more accessible place in his jacket pocket. It gave him an adrenalin rush just knowing his weapons were close at hand. The jumped-up kid wouldn’t know what had hit him.

  He walked slowly into the estate, looking round at the dimly-lit blocks. Turbo apparently liked to deal from the first-floor stairwells; it gave him time to swallow or plug any gear should the cops be on to him.

  Razor heard the sound of footsteps from nearby and moved back into the shadows to watch. A skinny young female approached a nearby block and, after glancing around, went into a doorway. Two minutes later she was back out and walking away in the direction from which she had first appeared. A deal had obviously gone down.

  Razor watched the block silently and saw a slight movement on the first floor. This was it. Turbo was there. He pushed his hand into his jacket pocket and gripped the knife, positioning his finger over the catch in preparation. As he entered the communal door, he heard a slight scuffle from above and then silence. Eagerly he climbed the first set of stairs, stepped slowly out on to the landing and stopped, waiting.

  After a few seconds, a figure emerged from the shadows.

  ‘What do you want?’ the figure said coldly.

  ‘You must be Turbo?’ Razor asked equally frostily.

  ‘Yeah I am. Who’s asking?’

  The man facing him was young, only around twenty years of age, Hispanic in appearance, short in height and with shoulder-length black, wavy hair. Exactly as Turbo had been described; though with his slight build and baby face, Razor thought with amusement that he looked more like a girl. This boy would be no match for him. He relaxed slightly. Turbo was going down.

  ‘I’m Razor and I suggest you talk to me with a bit more respect if you know what’s good for you.’

  ‘Ah, Razor. I’ve heard all about you, and from what I hear you should be the one speakin’ nice to me. Word is you’re a spent force. All washed up. Can’t even keep your own girls in line.’ Turbo looked him up and down and smiled contemptuously. ‘Never mind, old man. Fuck off out of here and we’ll pretend this little conversation never took place.’

  Razor stood his ground. How dare the boy talk this shit!

  ‘You need to learn some manners,’ He pulled the knife from his pocket and pressed the catch, thrusting the serrated blade towards the boy.

  Quick as a flash, Turbo reacted, kicking Razor’s knife straight from his hand, sending it clattering across the stairwell and down the steps out of reach. At the same time, the boy caught him off balance, swinging him round and pushing the barrel of a gun hard against the side of his head.

  ‘I think it is you who needs to learn some manners. Now, say sorry, old man.’

  Razor clenched his teeth but said nothing. How the fuck had this boy reduced him to this position with such ease?

  ‘I said apologise, old man, or I’ll blow you’re fuckin’ brains out.’

  Razor winced as the barrel drilled harder against his temple. After all he’d fought for in his life, he was going to die, right here, alone on an isolated, freezing stairwell at the hands of a kid.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled quietly.

  ‘Say it louder, old man, I can’t hear you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated louder.

  ‘That’s better.’ Turbo laughed loudly. ‘I don’t like people mumbling. It makes me think they’re not showing me the proper respect.’ He pushed Razor away, sending him sprawling out on the concrete walkway before taking aim at Razor’s buttocks. ‘Now get out of here before I change my mind and put a bullet in your sorry arse.’

  Razor dragged himself to his feet and stumbled away down the stairs, his footsteps pounding in time with Turbo’s mocking tones. As he neared the bottom step, he spotted his knife and picked it up, the temptation to issue another challenge almost luring him back up the stairs, but this time Razor knew better. He had been beaten fair and square by a younger, better-equipped adversary and could not win.

  Folding the blade safely into its handle, he slunk off, like a wounded animal into the darkness. A knife was no match for a 9mm. He would find Caz. He needed an easier victim.

  *

  The Punter could stand the monotony no longer. He had to get out. This particular weekend had been torture.

  Now he had a car, a shiny nearly new Silver Audi A5 TFSI Convertible, with lavish integral gadgets and an electric roof that purred open at the touch of a button. His shopping trip, as well as being the only thing of interest that weekend, had been a great success and he was the proud owner of a smart new brown leather jacket, brown brogues and a chunky gold signet ring. Christmas had come early for him. The timely estimate from the insurance company on his burnt-out car and the imminent promotion at work provided all the means required to afford the extra borrowing on a loan. Tuesday morning would bring the confirmation of promotion. It was already in the bag, but he couldn’t wait.

  He flexed his fingers, staring down at the ring with pleasure. Jewellery demonstrated the trappings of wealth better than any other possession. Everyone had a car, everyone had clothes, but few people had enough spare income to waste on gold. It wasn’t a necessity, it wasn’t even customary, but there was nothing like it for promoting his image… and image was everything.

  ‘Can’t you two just be quiet?’, he snapped at the twins, earning a withering glance from his wife.

  ‘Leave them be, can’t you? They’re just excited.’

  Her rebuke was the final straw. He wanted excitement too and there was none to be had here, with his family. Rising from his chair, he strode to the hallway, hauled his jacket on and slammed out of the house, ignoring the cries from his wife and children for daddy to stay.

  The new car was everything he desired, sleek, sexy and sophisticated, and as the engine growled into life, he relaxed. The engine responded to the tiniest of pressure as he manoeuvred along the backstreets until he reached Lambeth. This was better. This gave him the thrill he craved. His heart was pumping as he cruised slowly around his favourite places, the corners where the dirty whores frequented, the dark shadows where they practised their filthy rituals, the alleyways where they received their punishment. He knew them all.

  A girl stepped out from behind a tree and stared towards his car. She wanted him to stop. She wanted him to pick her up. He could tell from the way she was dressed and how she held herself, and the knowledge turned him on. He was mesmerised by her presence, the anger and desire building within his head and groin. The filthy bitch was messing with his mind. She needed to be chastised for the way she made him act.

  A slight movement in the nearby bushes caught his attention. He flicked his headlights on to main beam, watching closely as the whore shielded her face and turned towards the shrubs. He focussed on the greenery, catching the glint of metal and the movement of a solidly-built man dressed all in black. The bitch had protection. Her pimp was at her side, waiting to pounce on any man letting his dick rule his brain, too stupid to take care. But they wouldn’t trick him. He was far, far too clever. The bitches would all learn he was not to be fucked with. Nobody even suspected what he’d done just a few days before. It had been far too easy covering his tracks.

  He accelerated away, glorying in the surge of power from his new car. The Audi would not be recognised. He would not be recognised. He could come and go as he pleased… and he would.

  Chapter 34

  The phone call came in the early hours when Dimitri was least expecting it. Business was slow at the Lewisham house, but this was to be anticipated. Details of its new location had to filter out amongst their regulars and the locals were still to be cultivated. The area was ripe for a thriving business though, many of its population having left wives and families in distant lands in order to establish a base in London. The trickle of customers through the back doors would soon become a torrent.

  Dimitri prided himself on doin
g his research well. He also delighted in maintaining control; even Hanna was complying with his every command. Things were going well.

  He pulled the phone from his jacket pocket and answered the call. The reception on the line from Europe was crackle-free and the instructions of his Russian counterpart clear and coherent. There could be no mistakes.

  ‘It is all confirmed,’ the voice said. ‘I have your girl now. She is young and keen and ready to leave her parents and come to you. Her documents are prepared and we will start the journey tomorrow. Meet me at the usual place at 16.00 hours on Tuesday and I will introduce you. Then she is all yours.’

  Chapter 35

  The funeral service was to be held in a large Catholic Church in South Dublin within view of Dublin Castle. Charlie and Hunter were up in plenty of time, choosing a position at the rear of the church in order to oversee the mourners. As prominent members of the Murder Investigation Team, they had been selected to represent the Metropolitan Police; attending the service and wake in order to glean any snippets of background information that might assist the investigation. Where a suspect, or suspects, might sometimes be expected to attend, today this would be unlikely. They would be there predominantly to show respect to the victim and her family.

  At 11 a.m. precisely, the procession arrived. Redz’ coffin was carried slowly and reverently up the aisle with her two brothers assisting the undertakers to bear the load.

  The coffin was laid at the front of the church, adorned with a large wreath of red roses and white lilies. As the first organ notes rang out, Gerald Flaherty, Redz’ father, stepped forward and carefully placed a large bronze frame on top of the casket. Charlie’s eyes were drawn immediately to the photograph of a young, flame-haired girl smiling coyly from behind a tree trunk, her auburn locks blowing freely in the breeze. With a shock, she realised the same young girl, so innocent and pure, had transitioned into the woman whose life had been beaten from her in a filthy alleyway in London.

  Charlie had read all about Redz’ history, extensively detailed by the Family Liaison Officers, and the details had been harrowing. Grace had been sent by her parents, Gerald and Ann, to stay with Gerald’s sister in London as a child, to continue her education. At first, her life had been good, but after a while allegations started to surface that the aunt’s boyfriend had been sexually abusing her. Grace’s strict Catholic parents were kept fully informed of the allegations, but rather than rock the family boat, they decided instead to ignore the accusations, closing their minds and hearts to any inherent disgrace. Their daughter didn’t say a word either; probably being too worried or ashamed of their reaction. Grace, or Redz as she was now known, told her parents only that she’d moved on and was living cosily with her boyfriend, Clinton Roberts… and they chose to believe her. Her slow decline into drugs and prostitution had begun.

  If Gerald and Ann Flaherty had chosen not to believe the distressing allegations earlier, however, the truth was now abundantly clear, principally because the aunt had declined to attend the funeral. The truth was to be buried, alongside their daughter; even her siblings unaware of the whole truth about Redz’ lifestyle. Gerald Flaherty was a broken man, believing his daughter’s death to be entirely his fault for sending Grace to live with his sister in the first place.

  Charlie had listened to his voice cracking with emotion, as he spoke of the young girl who had never returned. He couldn’t even bring himself to repeat her nickname. Redz had no place in his memory. Grace would always be Grace and would remain pure and untarnished in his eyes.

  The priest who conducted the full Catholic funeral mass concentrated only on the Grace Flaherty in the photo too, making little mention of her life and death in London. Prayers were said for the souls of both Grace and the person who had taken her life, and the family was held up for supplication. Charlie scanned the congregation as the service progressed with growing sadness. The family spread out across the front pews. As the youngest of five daughters and two sons, Redz had been the last in a long line of red-headed children. Most of the siblings were easily recognisable, their similarities astounding and their grief at losing their little sister heartbreaking. As they filed out at the end of the service, the brothers and sisters held hands, as if by standing in unity, the strength of their bond would somehow ward off evil.

  Gerald Flaherty glanced towards Charlie and Hunter as he followed on behind the coffin, acknowledging their presence and nodding his thanks for attending. For Charlie, any frustration at not being with the team to assist with the preparations for hunting Dimitri was swept away on the wave of the family’s gratitude. It was important that they show their solidarity of purpose and for her it was also a way of connecting the body on the slab with Grace, a living, breathing daughter and sister. Redz might have been regarded by some as human refuse on the streets of Lambeth, but here, in Ireland, she was lauded for the beautiful child she had once been.

  The burial was to take place in the graveyard of a small fisherman’s church overlooking Dublin Bay. The River Liffey snaked through the city and reached the sea at this point, stretching out across the sandbanks and escaping the confines of the city. The gentle breeze brought with it a crisp saltiness that masked the urban aromas. To the south, the Wicklow Mountains stood guard, further incarcerating the growing sprawl in an area, which was already too small for its population.

  Charlie and Hunter followed the cortège to the nearby site. Opting for a burial rather than a cremation had helped to speed up the release of Redz’ body, internment at least allowing the police the opportunity to re-examine the body, should extreme circumstances necessitate. As Charlie entered the gates to the graveyard, the noise and bustle of the city became hushed. A peace and tranquillity suffused the whole area and she was struck by its deep silence and beauty. Gulls and terns flew high above, circling the shallows, their cries wafted in with the wind, the only noise to break through the silence.

  The family was already clustered around a freshly dug plot, facing towards the sea as Charlie and Hunter made their way to the rear of the group. Charlie felt as if she was intruding, but at the same time, she knew how important it was to Gerald Flaherty that they should understand the family’s grief. As the pallbearers carried the light oak coffin containing Grace Flaherty’s broken body towards the waiting mourners, she looked towards Redz’ father. His eyes held an expression of terror, as if permanently imagining the horrors perpetrated on his youngest daughter. In the few days since hearing of his daughter’s murder, his cheeks had become sunken and gaunt, his hair speckled grey and his frame frail, grief and anger having literally sucked the life from him.

  Next to him stood his wife, Ann, Redz’ mother, a short, ruddy-faced woman still with a full head of vivid orange hair, whose looks most of the children had inherited. She appeared the sturdier of the two, although tears constantly glistened in her red-rimmed eyes.

  The priest walked in front of the coffin, reading out passages from the Bible, the crunch of the gravel getting louder as he approached. He finished his reading and as the undertakers stepped on to the grass, the squawking of the gulls faded into the distance, and the waves became still. Everything slowed as the coffin was lowered carefully down into the depths of the cold earth, the silence overwhelming. Charlie held her breath as Gerald Flaherty sunk to his knees on the damp grass, his face convulsed in torment. As the priest sprinkled holy water on to the casket and red petals rained down from the hands of those above, Redz’ father threw his hands up over his face and a low guttural moan escaped from his lips.

  ‘Please forgive me, Grace,’ he cried out. ‘I should never have let you go.’

  Chapter 36

  Little had changed for Caz. She’d thought it would, she’d even dared to hope that it might, but two days on from Dutch’s death she was standing at the entrance to the alleyway where her friend Redz had met her end, exposed to the elements and subject to the same dangers as before.

  She pulled her handbag closer, the security of her crac
k pipe and ragdoll providing her succour. Razor’s disposition was the only thing to have changed. If anything, he was even meaner and moodier than usual. Every word or action annoyed him, every silence or inaction increased his rage.

  Something had clearly happened, but for now, Caz had no idea what. It couldn’t be the police case, surely? She’d provided his alibi and planted the seeds of doubt with Angie’s information about The Punter… but that seemingly wasn’t enough. Nothing she did was enough.

  The night before, he’d brought her here. It was to be her new permanent patch and she was to get used to it. She was to wait at the entrance for the passing trade and entice the clients into its darkened recesses. There was no scope for arguing. It was as if he’d got the future all figured out in his brain, and this location was where their fate was destined to be played out.

  Right now, he was watching her every move, waiting in the shadows in case of trouble. She wanted to believe it was because he loved her and couldn’t bear for anything bad to happen to her, but realistically she knew it was because he dare not risk another dealer poaching his last girl, or a punter harming her in any way. Still, at least it was just the two of them against the world.

  Monday evenings were traditionally quiet on the streets. With any luck, after one or two tricks, Razor would give her a break and they could return to the relative warmth of his flat for the night.

  Her phone vibrated within the leg of her boot and she bent down, seeing Ayeisha’s name appear on the screen. It was only a shitty old iPhone, reconditioned several times in the local tobacconists, but it was her lifeline to the outside world. She pulled it out and answered the call, aware of the risk she was taking. Razor didn’t like her socialising when she was supposed to be at work, and he would be watching and listening. The conversation would have to be kept short.