by DS Butler
“How well did you know Mr. Hammad?” Charlotte asked.
“Syed? I saw him most days. He would save me a copy of the Daily Mail. I like to do the crossword in the evenings. We’d have a quick chat, nothing very profound, just talk about the weather and things.”
“Had he been depressed recently?”
Kathy shook her head. “Not that I noticed. So you do think… you think he killed himself?”
Mackinnon let her question hang in the air.
Kathy looked down at the floor and chewed on her thumbnail. “I wouldn’t have thought he was the type. I suppose you never know, do you?”
“We don’t have all the answers yet,” Charlotte said. “We’re still gathering information, talking to people like you, and trying to work out what happened.”
Mackinnon watched Kathy dunk a tea bag into a pink mug. “Did you see any of the gang hanging around the newsagent’s?”
“I saw two of them taken away by ambulance, but I didn’t get a good look at them, to be honest. I know Syed had some problems with kids from the Towers Estate. He put a notice up on the shop door, saying schoolchildren were only allowed in the shop one at a time.”
“Do you know the names of any of the kids he had trouble with?”
“They didn’t bother me much.” She gestured around the salon. “There’s nothing to nick here.”
A heavy banging sounded at the front of the shop. Someone was pounding on the door and rattling the door handle. Kathy’s eyes widened. She really did look terrified.
Mackinnon put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right. I’ll go and see who it is.”
She swallowed hard and nodded.
As Mackinnon walked out of the kitchen area and into the salon, he sensed Kathy behind him. It was dark now and hard to see, even though the front of the shop was mainly glass. He could just about make out the dark outline of a male figure. He unbolted the door and reached for the door handle.
As soon as Mackinnon pulled the door open, the man burst inside. His face was screwed up in a mask of aggression.
“Who the hell are you?” His nostrils flared as he grunted out the words. He wore a black leather jacket, over a white vest top. His arms were crooked at the elbow, ready for a jab.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Mackinnon, City of London police. Who are you?”
The anger seemed to drain away from him, and his shoulders slumped.
“It’s Stuart.” Kathy rushed up to them. “It’s all right, he’s my brother.”
Stuart Walker rubbed his forehead. He seemed full of pent up anger, rage bubbling beneath the surface. He was tall, only an inch or so shorter than Mackinnon, and he looked like he took care of himself. Probably a regular at the gym, judging from the width of his neck.
“What the hell is going on, Kathy? I just checked my phone, and there’s a hysterical message from you going on about poisonous gas. I came round as soon as I got the message.”
“There was gas. Hydrogen something or other. We were evacuated. Syed’s dead, Stuart.” Kathy’s eyes brimmed with tears.
Her brother put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him. “Christ.” He looked up at Mackinnon. “Sorry I reacted like that. But I was worried. I didn’t know you were police. I just saw a big bloke I don’t know opening my sister’s door. I didn’t know what to think.” He took a breath. “Was anyone else hurt? Is Mitch okay?”
Kathy sniffed. “A couple of kids were taken to hospital, but Mitch is fine.”
“Mitch Horrocks?” Mackinnon said, exchanging a look with Charlotte.
“Yeah.” Stuart smiled at his sister. “If you’re all right, I’ll go and see how he’s doing.”
After the door closed behind Stuart, Mackinnon turned to Kathy.
“Are you and your brother close to Mitch Horrocks?” Mackinnon asked, wondering if they’d encountered Mitch’s bad side earlier. Perhaps he could be friendly under different circumstances.
Kathy’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not. I can’t stand him.”
They left the hairdressing salon and waited as Kathy bolted the door behind them. Turning to head back to report to DI Tyler, Mackinnon saw DC Collins, pen and notepad in hand, heading towards them.
“Any luck at the mobile phone shop, Nick?” Mackinnon asked.
Collins shook his head and stuffed his notebook into his pocket. “It’s closed. The manager, Pete Morton, lives out Walthamstow way apparently. I haven’t been able to track him down yet. How about you? Found anything useful?”
“Not yet. No one seems to know the victim very well.”
Collins exhaled. “Webb is tracking down the family. The parents are dead, but there’s a brother back in Pakistan.” He leaned a little closer to Charlotte and Mackinnon. “Do you really think he did this himself?”
Mackinnon shrugged. “I don’t know. Funny way to do it. Why not do it somewhere more … private?”
“Yeah,” Collins said. “It doesn’t feel right.”
Mackinnon knew what he meant. It didn’t feel right at all.
8
1976
WHEN JUNIOR’S MOTHER dragged him along the street towards their house, Junior knew something bad was going to happen.
She yanked him up the steps to their front door, pausing only to glare down at him as she fumbled in her bag for her keys.
Junior knew what was coming, and it was going to hurt.
Across the road, old Mrs. Gladstone leaned heavily on her walking stick and raised one hand to wave at them. Junior raised his hand to wave, but his mother quickly snatched it back down and dragged him inside, slamming the door behind them.
“Take off your coat, Junior,” his mother said.
He removed his coat slowly, easing off the sleeves one at a time. He stood on tip toes to hang his coat on the stand by the door. If he took a long time, maybe his mother would forget why she was angry. It was worth a try. Sometimes she forgot. In a few moments, she could swing from wanting to scratch his eyes out to showering him with kisses.
From the way his mother watched him through narrowed eyes, he knew he wouldn’t be lucky this time.
“Go in the kitchen, Junior.”
“Yes, Mother.”
He straightened his school tie and made sure his shirt was tucked in. Mother didn’t like him to be untidy, and he didn’t want to give her another reason to be angry.
He stood in the kitchen, waiting.
His mother put down her handbag on the kitchen table and began to wipe the kitchen counters down with bleach, even though the kitchen was spotless. The smell of the chlorine stung Junior’s nose.
He wiped his sweaty palms on his school shorts. The anticipation was the worst part.
“You know I don’t like to do this, don’t you, Junior?”
“Yes, Mother.”
He stared at the wet kitchen counters that glistened with bleach. He swayed from side to side.
His mother pursed her lips and took a deep breath. “Come over to the drawer, Junior,” she said. She opened the cutlery drawer wide, rearranging the knives and forks, making sure everything was perfect.
Junior could feel his heart beating. It felt like a panicked sparrow was fluttering in his chest.
“Put your hand in the drawer, Junior.”
His hand felt heavy as he tried to lift it, but he managed to place it over the drawer, barely touching the wood.
She curled his little fingers, one by one, over the front of the drawer.
Junior’s breath came in shaky little gasps. He knew what would happen next.
“He that spareth the rod hateth the child.” His mother slammed the door shut, trapping his fingers in one quick movement.
Junior inhaled, but he didn’t make a sound.
His fingers remained wedged between the two pieces of wood.
His lower lip wobbled, but he didn’t cry. Crying made it worse. He tried to think about something else. He pictured his teacher’s head clamped in the drawer.
His mother
pulled back the drawer, inch by inch, then shoved it closed. Harder this time.
A small whimper escaped Junior, though he did his best to subdue it. The pain of the wood smashing into Junior’s already bruised fingers rocketed up his arm.
He didn’t cry any more. He taught himself to keep it inside.
But at the back of his mind, Junior was screaming.
His mother let out a strangled sob and staggered over to the kitchen table. Falling into the hard-backed chair, she put her head in her hands and began to cry.
“Oh, Junior, why do you make me do this to you? Do you think I like it?”
“N... No, Mother.”
Junior remained where he was. He didn’t think his fingers were broken this time, but it took some moments before he gathered the courage to look down at his wounded fingers.
His knuckles were streaked with blood. He cradled his hand, looking down with fascination at the red gashes on his white skin.
His mother raised her head. “Does it hurt very much, Junior?”
“It’s okay, Mother.”
“Junior why’d you make me do this to you?”
Junior didn’t know. He thought there might be something inside him, something very bad, but it was best not to mention that. “I don’t know, Mother.”
“Are you sorry?”
“Yes.”
He reached out to touch her arm, but she withdrew quickly.
“Junior, your fingers.” She reached out and cradled his hand gently in hers, as if she were surprised.
Junior blinked up at her.
“We’d better get this cleaned up,” she said and moved towards the cupboard under the kitchen sink. She routed through the contents, looking for her first-aid kit.
His mother held up the bottle of brown fluid. “Now, this is what we need after you’ve been clumsy. Aren’t you a clumsy boy, Junior?”
Junior’s toes curled, imagining the sting of the disinfectant fluid touching the cuts on his raw skin. He grabbed onto the back of the chair, bracing himself as his mother poured neat disinfectant onto a ball of cotton wool.
“Yes, Mother.”
9
PRESENT DAY
AFTER THE late briefing, Mackinnon headed back to Derek’s place. Mackinnon would have the flat to himself tonight as Derek was staying with Liz, his new girlfriend. He seemed to be staying there quite a bit these days; perhaps it was getting serious – that would be a first for Derek.
Mackinnon opened the front door and Molly, Derek’s border collie, bounded towards him, her tail wagging furiously. Mackinnon reached down and scratched her behind the ears.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he said. Molly rolled over, loving the attention. “Not much of a guard dog, are you?”
She might not have been much of a guard dog, but what she lacked in killer instinct, she made up with enthusiasm. She definitely knew how to make someone feel wanted. She was the kind of dog that made Mackinnon wish he had one of his own.
Inside the flat on the kitchen counter, Mackinnon found a note from Derek, asking him to remember to feed Molly and take her for a walk. Mackinnon rolled his eyes. He didn’t really feel like taking a walk at this time of night, but when he looked down into Molly’s big brown eyes, he shrugged.
“All right you win,” he said.
The Indian takeaway was open until midnight. If he went the long way round that would give them both a bit of exercise. And a curry at the end of it would make it worthwhile.
“Come on then, sweetheart. Let’s get you some exercise.”
Mackinnon picked up Molly’s lead from the coat stand by the front door and hooked it onto Molly’s collar. They headed out together into the warm summer night.
Molly trotted along happily beside him as they turned right outside Derek’s apartment building. As they walked, Mackinnon thought about Syed Hammad. He had never worked on a case involving a toxic suicide before.
He definitely wasn’t convinced with Tyler’s working theory that this was a straightforward suicide. There were so many unanswered questions. Annoying niggles that didn’t quite add up.
Why would a man intent on suicide use his shop where anyone could walk in? The potential for contaminating innocent bystanders was huge. Why would anyone take that risk? Maybe the crime analyst and the rest of the team could come up with some answers before tomorrow morning’s briefing.
He breathed in the smell of warm beer as he passed a pub. It was closing time, and a group of people enjoying the balmy evening had spilled out onto the pavement in front of the pub. If it had been any earlier, Mackinnon would have been tempted to join them. At that moment, nothing seemed more attractive than enjoying a pint on this warm summer’s evening. Like the rest of Britain, Mackinnon always felt he should make the most of nights like this. They didn’t get enough of them.
It only took them ten minutes, even though they walked the long way round, to get to the Indian. It was Derek’s favourite restaurant and Mackinnon had popped in quite a few times over the past couple of months.
Mackinnon secured Molly’s lead to the bicycle rack next to the restaurant and headed inside.
The smell of spices wafted over him as soon as he entered the small waiting area. The distinctive sound of Indian music dominated by the sitar played out in the background. A young couple sat close together on one of the red velvet sofas. A bowl of poppadoms sat on the small coffee table in front of them.
Mackinnon’s stomach rumbled in anticipation.
The pretty Indian girl behind the counter looked up and smiled at him. “Hello, good to see you back again.”
Mackinnon had been in here last week, around this time. But surely once a week wasn’t too often to have an Indian takeaway, was it?
He pulled out his wallet from his back pocket. “I can’t stay away. I’ll have…”
“Rogan Josh? Extra spicy?”
Mackinnon smiled. If she remembered his order, perhaps he was coming here a little too often. When New Year came around, they would probably send him a calendar.
He thanked her and ordered a plain naan with his curry, then took a step back and looked outside to check on Molly. She looked happy enough, sitting patiently, waiting for him.
The woman behind the counter ripped off Mackinnon’s order. “Five minutes,” she said. “Take a seat and help yourself to the poppadoms. Can I get you a drink?”
Usually, Mackinnon would have taken a seat and had a beer while enjoying the smell of the food, but he felt bad leaving Molly sitting outside.
He turned down the offer of a drink and headed back to Molly to keep her company.
A single-decker, red bus rumbled past, the passenger’s blank faces staring out.
A couple of young men spilled out of the pub a few doors along. Mackinnon noticed Molly tense beside him. He leaned down and patted her flank. “It’s all right, sweetheart.”
The two male voices got louder and angrier. There was definitely a problem between them.
Although the most common form of murder in the UK was domestic, usually a husband or boyfriend killing their partner, the most common form of murder between two unrelated individuals occurred like this. Confrontation killings between two unknown males.
Mackinnon stared at the two young men and considered whether he would need to intervene.
Molly let out a low growl.
You never knew these days who might be carrying a knife. They might look completely respectable, like someone you could share a beer with, yet get a few drinks inside them and they could transform.
He didn’t think these two would be much of a problem. It was more posturing, neither one wanting to back down and lose face.
Another tense minute passed before the taller of the two men staggered away.
Mackinnon let out the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding and headed inside to collect his Rogan Josh.
They took the quick way home. Mackinnon was all for exercise but not when he was hungry.
“Sorry, Molly
,” he muttered. “You only get a short walk tonight.”
Mackinnon didn’t think Molly looked too bothered.
Inside Derek’s flat, before he served up his own curry, he opened a tin of gourmet dog food. No Pedigree Chum for Molly. Sometimes Mackinnon thought Derek spent more money on food for the dog than himself.
Mackinnon forked the contents of the tin into Molly’s blue ceramic bowl and set it on the ground next to her water. It didn’t look very appetising, but Molly seemed to love it. She impatiently pushed his hands away with her nose, eager to bite into the lumps of meat and jelly.
Mackinnon washed his hands, then plated up his own dinner and carried it and a Kingfisher lager over to the sofa. He switched on the TV, settling back with the plate on his lap. He didn’t get a chance to do this kind of thing very often these days. Chloe preferred to eat dinner as a family at the dining table.
It had taken a while, but Chloe’s girls had slowly accepted him into their family. They didn’t seem to resent his presence quite so much.
He drank some of the Kingfisher and made a mental note to buy Derek some more tomorrow. Derek had only been with Liz for a matter of weeks, but he’d hardly been home since he met her, preferring to spend all his time at her place. Talk about moving quickly. But then Derek didn’t ever do anything slowly.
Mackinnon turned down the volume on the news. It was a depressing run of stories on violence in the Middle East.
After he’d finished his curry, Mackinnon fired up his laptop and yawned while it booted up. If he could keep his eyes open long enough, he planned to have a look at some of the hydrogen sulphide cases around the world.
He typed: ‘hydrogen sulphide suicide’ into Google, and the first few results listed were the cases from Japan. It seemed that the chemicals involved had been very easy to get hold of there, and Japan was known for its unusually high suicide rate. There had also been a few cases in the US where the victims took their own lives, usually in a car, or a similarly small enclosed space.
And that was exactly why Syed Hammad’s suicide was odd. Why would he choose to do it downstairs in his shop? Of all the places he could have used, like his car or his bathroom, he chose the shop floor – a large open-plan space, which would require a great deal of the gas to get the job done.
