by Sarah Flint
*
Number 8 Havering Road, SW12, was just a regular house, in a regular street. It was nestled into the middle of a row of terraces, all uniform heights, with uniform frontages and uniform gardens. The cars parked outside on the road were mainly family cars, with child seats strapped into the rear and finger marks smeared across the windows. The families who lived in these houses were ‘just about managing’; parents struggling to earn enough money to pay the mortgage and going without themselves to ensure their child was fed and clothed and not singled out as the poor kid. They led day-to-day existences; nursery and school runs, TV evenings, trips to the local shops and sorties out to the nearby common to wear the children out before bedtime. People who lived in these houses had unextraordinary lives.
Yet as Charlie and Hunter walked along Havering Road, they knew that the news they were about to impart would catapult the family of number 8 into the headlines, a whole new world of pain, publicity and exposure. Their comfortable existence would be gone and the spotlight would fall on every nuance of their relationships, work life and family life. Never again would they moan about the dullness of the daily routine, wishing instead that each day would return to what they’d always known.
The sun had risen by the time they opened the gate and paced forward the dozen steps to stand before the front door, but it was still early. A few houses they’d passed showed the beginnings of movement, a TV flickering, lights peeping out from the curtains of the baby’s nursery, but in the main, the houses and their occupants were still sleeping.
Charlie took a deep breath before rapping quietly on the door with her knuckle. A family liaison officer would be appointed later that morning, but for now, imparting the worst possible news would be her job. If she could speak to the wife first, without the little ones becoming distressed, then so much the better. The house remained silent, so she knocked again, her breath catching in her throat as she heard the slight sound of movement from within.
*
Tina Ashton woke confused. She thought she’d heard a knocking noise but wasn’t sure where it was coming from. It was still dark in her room, but behind the curtains she could see the first shafts of daylight shining. She reached across to rouse Brian, but he wasn’t there. Maybe he was the one who was making the noise? Maybe he was making her an early morning cup of tea. It must be Bri, otherwise Casper would be barking. She remembered him briefly kissing her last night when he’d come in. He was a love.
She closed her eyes again, rolling over into her favourite foetal position, her hands automatically moving down to hug her extended belly. She felt their baby move within her and thought of it mirroring her position, its tiny legs and arms reaching out in a morning stretch, before tucking back into position. She smiled inwardly at the thought, yawning as she drifted off again.
She heard the same knock repeated, quiet and persistent, not forceful enough to wake Emily and Bobby, but loud enough to disturb her. It must be Brian. He knew she was a light sleeper. He must have got up early and sneaked out without waking her to take Casper for an early morning walk. That’s why Casper was quiet too. Maybe he’d forgotten his key, the silly idiot.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and heaved her body upright, stretching her spine and shoulders out as she did so. She’d be glad when this baby arrived, looking after two young children and carrying this extra weight was playing havoc with her lower back. Two weeks couldn’t come fast enough. She pulled her summer dressing gown on over her nightdress, tying the cord up over the top of her bump, and carefully descended the short flight of stairs. Casper’s lead was missing from its usual place on the hall table. So Brian must have taken him out.
The front door was solid wood, so she couldn’t see through it, but it would be him. He was always forgetting his keys, but this time she’d make him pay for getting her out of bed so early. This time he’d be making her tea in bed every morning for a whole month. She pulled the door open, ready to say the words on her lips when she saw the man and woman standing on the step. She knew immediately that they were police, even without seeing the warrant cards held in their hands. It was the knock on the door she had always feared.
Her mind spun back to the last time she’d heard her husband, the gentle kiss, the murmur that he’d be back soon, but had he returned? She suddenly couldn’t remember the feel of him slipping into bed beside her, the touch of his cool fingers, the breath against her neck as he nuzzled in close like he always did. No, he hadn’t returned. Something awful must have happened to him.
She looked into the female officer’s eyes and saw her discomfiture, the way her face was creased in a mix of worry and sympathy, and she knew exactly what words to expect. The voice she heard was far away, the question indistinct and fuzzy. Was she Tina Ashton? She nodded speechlessly. In that case could they come in? They needed to speak to her about Brian, her husband. She nodded again, her mind numbing. As strong arms reached towards her, a pain shot through her abdomen and everything went blank.
Chapter 4
It was just after midday by the time Charlie and Hunter returned to Lambeth HQ. The journey back had been quiet, each mulling over what they’d seen and what they now needed to do. The sun was bright, the sky a vivid blue and daily life was continuing all around them. Tourists thronged the streets and bridges of the River Thames, cameras in hand, selfie sticks projected at all angles as they smiled and pouted, with the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben as spectacular backdrops. Office workers were just beginning to emerge from their glass prisons to look for the nearest vendor selling the latest foreign cuisine trending in street food. Everybody in the outside world was going about their normal business, oblivious to what Charlie and Hunter had been witness to this morning.
In contrast, the atmosphere in their own building was sombre, even the security guard, normally effusive on seeing Charlie, was unusually subdued. News of a murder on your patch spread fast. News of a dead police officer travelled even faster, especially one from a neighbouring borough. Everybody either knew the victim or knew someone else who did.
They waited for the lift, stepping into it as a couple of Police Community Support Officers exited, one dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Charlie’s own eyes were sore and gritty. She was mentally and physically exhausted, having now been up almost twenty-four hours, but if she needed to be up for another twenty-four to catch the person who had mutilated their colleague she would be. They all would.
The rest of the team were scattered about the office when they entered, each with their heads burrowed deep into their computer screens. As one body, they all turned and rose when they saw Hunter and Charlie. Paul headed for the kettle, Naz and Sabira hovered above their work stations and Bet came straight towards them, throwing an arm around Charlie’s shoulder and giving her a little hug.
‘You OK?’
Charlie nodded for both of them.
‘How’s Tina, the wife. We heard what’s happened.’
‘She’s gone into early labour, but she’s in good hands now,’ Charlie replied. ‘Her sister is with her at St George’s maternity unit and her parents are looking after Bobby and Emily, her two kids from her previous marriage. She pretty much passed out at the sight of us. I’d barely had a chance to even introduce myself or check I was speaking to the right person.’
‘That’s the problem with being married to a cop.’ Hunter spread his arms. ‘Mrs H worries about getting that knock on the door. It’s always at the back of her mind when I’m working. That’s why I try not to tell her what we’re up to these days. It’s better that she doesn’t know.’ He turned and looked pointedly towards Charlie. ‘She knows the dangers though. She’d guess in exactly the same way as Tina did if two coppers turned up on our doorstep.’
‘Dave’s the same,’ Bet agreed. ‘We forget that to us it’s just a job, but it must be hard for our families on the outside. How awful for Tina. Finding out that your husband’s been murdered, then having to give birth without him. And the poor kid will neve
r even get to meet its father.’
‘Their son or daughter won’t be the only child who’s never met their father,’ Naz walked across to help Paul, bristling slightly, before taking a deep breath and shaking her head. ‘To be fair though, Brian Ashton sounds like he was a good father. At least he was paying maintenance for his first kid.’ Paul gave her a wink and she smiled weakly in return. Everyone knew the ongoing trouble Naz was having, trying to track down her younger son’s father. She’d almost given up a few times, but then her sense of injustice had kicked in. Nathaniel’s father would rue the day he tried to shirk his responsibilities. ‘Sorry, guys. Bad weekend. Not half as bad as yours by the sound of it though.’ She shrugged and frowned apologetically towards Charlie and Hunter, before brightening, ‘Did you realise Sab knew Brian Ashton a few years ago, boss?’
Hunter spun round towards Sabira. ‘Really? How long ago?’
Sabira looked startled at the sudden attention but quickly composed herself. She perched on the edge of her desk and pushed her hair back over her ears. Being the least extrovert member of the team, she didn’t usually like being in the limelight, but in the last year she had steadily grown in confidence, recently having purple highlights put into her silky, black hair. They were still a source of mild concern to her, but she was gradually embracing her new look and revelling in her effort to become more assertive.
‘It was before I became a detective, about three to four years ago, boss, when I moved over to South London, from my parents’ house in Hounslow. I requested a transfer to a station a little closer to my new address and I was sent to Southwark. Brian was on a different team, but we both did a stint on a crime squad for a while. He seemed like a nice guy; happy-go-lucky, popular with his team, always up for doing overtime.
‘We were posted together a few times and I remember him saying he’d recently got divorced and it was costing him a fortune. That’s why he was eager to do the extra hours, but then he met Tina and got all loved up. They were hoping to marry at some time, so he was saving for that too, but her ex-husband was being a bit of a twat about custody of their kids. I did hear that he got married a couple of years ago, but I don’t really know what happened to him after I came here.’
Hunter inclined his head. ‘So it sounds likely there could be a few domestic issues that will require our assistance. As we’ve already taken the lead, I’m sure my bosses will be happy to second you all on to the Murder Investigation Team… and they know how invaluable you’ve been in the past. Have you been able to do much this morning? Anything yet on possible suspects?’
Paul shook his head. ‘We’ve made a start, but there’s not much to go on. We’ve mainly been liaising with different units re trying to get a positive ID, CCTV, scene logs and any possible witnesses or officers who might be able to help. We’ve got other officers putting feelers out for any snouts who might know the word on the street about what’s happened. I also sent off for Brian Ashton’s full personal file to see if there’s anything in his family history that might be of interest. Naz and Sabira are going to work on his relationships, seeing as Sab already knows a little, but they need to speak with Tina first, so they’ll have to wait for her to give birth. We also need to make sure Brian’s first wife, Lorna, and their son, Max, are informed and spoken to, although I believe that’s in hand with family liaison.’
Bet joined in. ‘DCI O’Connor has also been asking whether there is anything further to indicate whether our killer knew Brian personally. Or that he was a police officer. He’s briefing the Superintendent in Counterterrorism. They’re obviously worried there might be CT implications, what with the increased terrorist threat to police and the armed forces.’
Hunter frowned immediately. Everybody knew how much he hated dealing with top brass, and the more political the incident, the more uncomfortable he became.
‘It seems too covert to me,’ he rubbed his hands over his head. ‘Terrorists like publicity. No one has claimed responsibility and usually there is no shortage of big, bold statements telling the world what they’ve done and why. So far, there are no known witnesses, no CCTV in the immediate vicinity and no footage coming to light. We had a quick chat with the caller, Eddie Pritchard, before we went to Tina’s. He hadn’t seen or heard anything or anyone, although he did admit to being pretty drunk when he found the body. By the time we spoke though, he’d well and truly sobered up.’
‘From what I hear, that sight would have sobered anyone up!’ Paul came over and sat down on a nearby desk. ‘Any theories from the scene? From what we hear there was a red rose left by the body. Sounds a bit sinister. Bet’s done some research on the significance of roses in the past.’
Hunter turned to Bet. ‘Go on. What did you find?’
Bet scratched her head. ‘Well, as we all know red roses are full of symbolism. They’re most commonly associated with love and romance, but I did some reading once when I had a dozen left by a particularly unloving, unromantic, controlling ex of mine and they can also be symbolic of courage, or power, as in the War of the Roses. I think in my ex’s case it was a power thing.’
‘Interesting,’ Hunter nodded. ‘Dare I ask who won your particular war?’
‘Who do you think?’ Bet laughed. ‘I snipped the flower heads off each bloom and threw the thorny stems straight back in his face. Never saw him again.’
‘Nice one, Bet,’ Naz smiled appreciatively. ‘Show ’em who’s boss. Talking about throwing things in faces. Why the acid?’
Charlie tilted her head to one side thoughtfully. ‘To disable his victim immediately? Or prevent any description of his attacker? Or could there be more to it? There didn’t appear to be any sign of a fight, so it’s fair to assume our attacker used the acid first. What do you think, Sab? You’re the expert on acid attack cases.’
Sabira took a deep breath, before exhaling noisily. With acid attacks historically being most prevalent in the Bangladeshi and Asian communities she, as an Asian officer, had dealt with the most. More recently, however, the use of acid had risen, particularly in gang-related assaults and with hospital admissions doubling in the last ten years, she was now using her knowledge to update the team.
‘Well, it’s a bit of an excessive method just to disable a victim or stop him giving a description. Why not cover your own face, with a balaclava say, or use something a little less drastic, like pepper spray or CS? Both are relatively easy to buy on the internet these days; even a good squirt of hairspray direct in the eyes works just as well. It’s much more likely to have been used for a specific reason.’
Paul pursed his lips. ‘Was anything stolen from Brian?’
‘Not that we know of,’ Charlie replied. ‘But he couldn’t be searched properly because of contact with the acid.’
‘So… it doesn’t sound like a robbery, although you can never completely rule out a random psycho.’
Sabira walked across to the kettle and claimed her mug, spooning in three teaspoons of sugar before stirring it thoughtfully. ‘You can’t rule out a stranger attack completely, but I agree Paul. It sounds to me more like our attacker knew Brian Ashton personally and wanted to blind or disfigure him deliberately; maybe to teach him a lesson for something he’s done or make him unattractive to the opposite sex, like in honour attacks.’
Paul nodded. ‘That’s all well and good but why blind or disfigure him if you then kill him? What about the severed hands then? What the fuck is that all about?’
‘To stop him touching what is not his?’ Naz threw the cloth down that she’d been using to mop up some spilt milk. ‘If we’re thinking the acid might be a symbol, to stop him looking attractive to other women, or looking at other women, maybe removing his hands is also symbolic, to stop him touching them? Maybe our Brian is not quite as squeaky clean as we thought?’
Sabira took up the thread.
‘Or as some kind of barbaric punishment, like they do in some extremist Islamic countries. Even now flogging and stoning is prevalent and, in some areas,
courts still order thieves to have their hands severed. The Qur’an sanctions the removal of a person’s hands for theft, but obviously most moderate Muslims would never actually do this. Extremists take the passages out of context and use sharia law to justify their actions. You’ve only got to look at the rise of ISIS to see that. They’re mad.’
Sabira shook her head sadly. She had a working knowledge of Islam, being a Muslim herself, although these days more in name than practice. Her sexuality was not recognised by the religion, but ironically she still felt criticism of the faith keenly.
‘Don’t worry, Sabira, they’re not the only ones,’ Bet consoled. ‘Christianity is just as brutal. In medieval and biblical times, they believed in an eye for an eye. If you stole or coveted your neighbour’s property, including their wives or daughters, the punishment was designed to fit the crime. There are many cases from the Middle Ages onwards in this country where thieves were flogged or had their hands or ears cut off. Some thieves were even hanged. Thankfully we’ve got more sense these days and can see how barbaric and OTT these punishments are, but there are still some hardliners about. The debate about the return of the death penalty and corporal punishment still rears its ugly head regularly, doesn’t it? In the last few days, I heard a news item talking about bringing back the death penalty for child murderers.’
‘Now, that wouldn’t be a bad idea.’ Hunter stopped abruptly on saying the words, having realised the implications. The office went quiet. It was a little too close to home for everyone.
The silence was broken by a knock at the door, but before anyone could shout out, a man opened it and popped his head round, his smile turning to alarm at the sight of six mute faces all turned towards him. He had a boyish face with startlingly blue eyes, bleached blond hair, cut into a short, classy style, designer stubble and a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses propped on the top of his head.
‘Oops. Sorry. Have I come at a bad time?’ He manoeuvred a large cardboard box between him and the frame and pushed the door open fully, stepping confidently into the room. His physique was in harmony with his face; six feet two inches of slim, toned torso on top of long, muscular legs, all encased in ripped Levi jeans and a Superdry T-shirt. He looked as if he’d be more at home on Bondi Beach than in the staid environment of Lambeth police headquarters. ‘Maybe these will help?’
