Waking Broken

by Huw Thomas

  Glasgow looked the place up and down. No signs or notices gave away the house’s purpose. There was only one car in the drive, a battered old Citroen. There were net curtains at all the windows but no obvious alarms or bars: nothing to keep out intruders or contain the occupants. There was only one dustbin on view. All in all, nothing to suggest the property was anything other than a normal family home.

  Glasgow smiled briefly to himself. He knew he had the right house but without being told there would have been nothing to suggest this was the correct address. He turned and nodded to his passenger. ‘Well, let’s go see.’

  The two men got out of the police car and walked up to the front porch. The outer door was open and Glasgow stepped inside and rang the doorbell. There was no immediate sign of a reaction from inside the house and the detective moved back a pace. As he did so, he turned slowly and let his eyes scan the sloping ceiling above the porch. He almost missed it: tucked into one corner, hidden by some carefully neglected cobwebs, was the glinting dark eye of a small security camera.

  Glasgow pulled his warrant card from inside his jacket and held it towards the lens. ‘Police,’ he said.

  There was no glass in the front door to show movements within but a few moments later they heard a heavy tread from inside. A couple of bolts slid back and the door opened a couple of inches.

  ‘Yeah?’ No face appeared in the gap and the voice from within sounded as no-nonsense as its one word question.

  ‘Detective Inspector Robert Glasgow.’ He cautiously waved his identification through the gap, ready to snatch it back if the door was suddenly slammed on his fingers.

  ‘Who’s the other one?’

  ‘That’s Inspector Matt Johnson. He’s with West Midlands police.’

  ‘What’d you want?’

  ‘We need to ask you a few questions. Can we come in?’

  ‘No. What you want?’

  Glasgow glanced over the shoulder at his colleague and pulled a face before turning back to the narrow opening. ‘We’re trying to trace a woman called Elena Hoffman. It’s possible she might have come here.’

  ‘An’ what if she did?’

  Glasgow sighed. ‘We need to try and find out where she is. Or whether she ever came here. It’s possible she’s come to harm.’

  There was a deep snort from inside. ‘Well tell me something new. Where’d you think you is? Women don’t come here unless they already come to some kinda harm. The lucky ones is the ones who make it here.’

  Glasgow pulled an unseen snarl at the door in front of him. ‘Look, this is important. It would really help if we could come in and talk to you.’

  ‘You ain’t comin’ in.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because havin’ your sort inside is the last thing these women want.’

  Glasgow scowled. ‘Hey, I don’t know what your problem with the police is but we’re not here for our own entertainment either. We’re trying to investigate a possible crime against a woman. I’d have thought we were operating on the same side under the circumstances.’

  ‘Oh lord.’ A deep, growling sigh came from the other side of the door. ‘Men! You’re not that bright is you, dearie. It’s not that you is police. The problem is you is police men. Could you not’ve had the tact to have at least brought one of those things called WPCs with you?’

  Glasgow winced. ‘Yeah, well in normal circumstances. But I didn’t have time to go and find one and I needed to be here because it’s important we ask the right questions.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t think you’d appreciate it if we came mob-handed. I thought a few discrete questions from a pair of us wouldn’t cause too much disruption.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ There was a rattle of a chain being taken off the door and it swung open to reveal a huge black woman. She was dressed in a bright purple dress that hung in ornate folds from her massive frame. ‘You stay there. I’ll talk to you out here.’

  Slipping through the door with a grace that belied her scale, the entrance keeper pulled the door shut behind her and stood in front of it, arms folded. Glasgow’s eyes widened fractionally as he saw the size of her forearms.

  His change of expression was only brief but she caught it. The thick lipstick parted to reveal gleaming teeth as she stared right back at the detective in the tailored suit and grinned. ‘Oh yes, sweetie, you better believe it. Some of this is fat but I could still put you on yo’ white ass.’

  Glasgow smiled back. ‘I believe you.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘So what’s the camera for? So you can decide whether you need your brass knuckles or not?’

  She gave him a cool stare, the smile gone. ‘It’s no joking matter, copper. We’ve had a few find this place that ain’t the kind to take no for an answer.’ She pulled a handful of glossy curls of hair to one side and turned her head. ‘See this?’

  An ugly scar ran from under the collar of her dress and disappeared up behind a large clasp earring. The detective nodded.

  ‘That was one loving husband in a hurry to see his wife. He didn’t stop to ask questions but took a bottle to me soon as I opened the door.’ She gave a humourless smile. ‘He’s due back out of prison in a couple of months.’ The big black woman shrugged. ‘I got the camera put in after him. I’m ready now. I’ve got me a baseball bat, can of mace an’ a few other tricks ready for anyone tries to force the way through that door.’

  Glasgow nodded. ‘Fair enough.’

  The woman’s eyes widened a fraction. ‘That so? Last copper I said that to, man told me I should call 999 an’ lock myself in my room. Said we’s not supposed to take the law into our own hands.’

  Glasgow shrugged. ‘Depends how you interpret it. The way I learnt it, you’re allowed to use all reasonable force to defend yourself. Far as I’m concerned, anyone using violence or threats to get somewhere they’re not wanted is breaking the law. That makes them a criminal.’ He pulled a card out of his wallet and handed it to her. ‘You ever have anyone get hurt trying to get in here, give me a call. I believe in victims first not criminals.’

  The woman nodded thoughtfully as she looked at the card. ‘Okay, Mr DI Glasgow, okay… I hear what you say. But, you remember: I might take you up on yo’ offer one day.’

  ‘No problem.’ Glasgow gave a quick grin. ‘Just as long as you remember to put down the baseball bat.’

  ‘Huh.’ She gave him a cool stare in return. ‘We’ll see ‘bout that when the time comes. So, what’d you want?’

  The second policeman stepped forward and pulled a photograph out of his pocket. The snap showed a man and woman posing outside a church. He was stocky and unsmiling, a dour looking man wearing his age and his suit badly. She was at least ten years younger and, despite the wedding dress, looked barely old enough to be out of school but was at least trying to smile.

  ‘This was taken six years ago,’ said the West Midlands officer. ‘It’s the woman we’re interested in. She left home on Sunday night. We understand she was coming here and we want to know if she made it.’

  The black woman frowned. ‘But what’s so special ‘bout her?’

  Johnson frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

  The big woman snorted with derision. ‘Oh, come on Mr Policeman. We have women turn up here every week.’ She stabbed a heavy finger at the photograph. ‘I mean, I don’t know what her story is but look at her: what is she, Polish, Ukrainian? She’s just another immigrant girl with a nasty bastard for a husband. So what! What’s special about that? I could introduce you to fifty women who’ve disappeared from home. Why you so interested in her?’

  Glasgow sighed. ‘Come on, can’t you just tell us… by the way, what’s your name?’

  ‘Matter do it?’

  ‘Not really.’ He shrugged and waved a hand dismissively. ‘Might help though when you ring me up to say you’ve smashed some bastard’s brains out with your baseball bat if I know who you are.’

  The big woman looked at him stony-faced for a whi
le then her stern expression melted a fraction and she gave a dirty giggle. ‘Okay, Mr DI Glasgow, you got me there.’ She held out a hand. ‘I’m Camille.’

  ‘Just Camille?’

  ‘Is good enough for most people, Mr DI Glasgow.’

  ‘Okay then, Camille. You want to know why I’m interested in this woman. Well, it’s because we know she’s got an abusive, nasty bastard of a husband who’s knocked her around since he first married her and brought her to this country. Now, my colleague here has come down because a relative reported this woman missing and the family are scared the husband might have done something to her. But, the thing is, we know a social worker gave her your address and she got on a train from Birmingham on Sunday night. What we’re trying to work out is whether she got here.’

  ‘Uh huh. That it?’

  ‘What more do you want?’

  Camille laughed. ‘Hey, I might be fat, Mr DI Glasgow, but my head ain’t stupid.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Where’s the hurry? This kinda thing ain’t normally high priority for you people is it? Two o’ you come rushing down to check it out. Why don’t you just ring up and ask like normal? Have you looked at your CCTV cameras at the station, see if she made it that far or not?’

  Glasgow smiled. ‘Okay, Camille. Like you say, you ain’t stupid. In which case, you also know I can’t tell you everything. And,’ he frowned, ‘you’re right, we wouldn’t normally make a job like this top priority. But the thing is we’ve got two possible problems here.’

  ‘Yeah? Two problems? Well ain’t you the lucky one.’

  The detective grinned. ‘Yeah. Like they say, a policeman’s lot is a happy one.’ He gestured over his shoulder at the other policeman. ‘For my colleague here it’s quite straightforward. He wants to find out if Elena Hoffman has vanished because her husband has done something to her. In which case, he’s looking at a serious investigation. On the other hand, if she got fed up with being knocked around and did a bunk, he can close the file and go home. If she doesn’t want her husband to know where she is, that’s up to her; that’s the husband’s problem, not ours.’

  ‘Yeah. So what’s the other problem?’

  Glasgow sighed. ‘The other problem is mine. That’s if she caught her train okay but something happened to her after she got here.’

  Camille’s eyes narrowed. ‘Hold on there, Mr DI Glasgow. That’s quite a leap. If she got away from her husband, why do you think something might have happened to her here? There something going on in this town we should be told about?’

  38. Stairway To Heaven

  Friday, 11.02am:

  Ahmad looked at the heavy padlock; whoever was here last had been careless when they closed the door. The hasp of the lock had been slipped through the metal loop holding the door shut but the padlock itself was still open.

  He reached out and touched the cold brass, wondering what lay on the other side, uncertain whether to go and see.

  Ahmad had found his way into the former army barracks with little problem. A short way along the fence from where he scrambled up was a faulty gabion. A section of the wire cage was broken and some of its stones had tumbled down into the river. The gap left between the bank and the chain link fence was just big enough for a small boy to worm his way through.

  Wires and stones had caught at his clothes as he squirmed through but by that point Ahmad had given up trying to protect his school uniform from further damage. What was more important was that none of Leroy’s gang, if they realised he had escaped along the fisherman’s path, would be able to follow him through the hole.

  Once inside the military site, Ahmad had worried about bumping into a security guard or someone else in authority. After a bit of exploration, however, it was clear the whole place was deserted. The realisation was a relief initially but soon became unnerving. Being completely alone in the sprawling complex of offices, warehouses, workshops and parade grounds felt weird. Surrounded by buildings apparently still functional but totally silent, Ahmad began to get an unpleasant sense of being spied on. With so many windows around, he could not help feel there must be a face behind one of them.

  After finding himself in a vast quadrangle where serried rows of windows stared back from all sides, he retreated towards the river. He emerged from the complex near the warehouse where he had seen the red van.

  A thin drizzle that had started while he was in the quadrangle began to get heavier and Ahmad looked around for somewhere to take cover.

  The warehouse offered about the only obvious shelter and Ahmad approached it cautiously. The red van was the only vehicle he had seen anywhere on the site and although there was no sound of activity, he did not want to take any chances.

  The van was unmarked and parked at the back of a row of loading bays, out of sight from most angles. At the rear of each bay were metal roller doors, all closed. But there was also a normal door in one corner of the first bay. Ahmad tried the handle without thinking. The door opened. A Yale lock should have kept it closed but the catch had not been released. Inside was a short corridor. One side was mainly glass and looked into the warehouse: an expanse of empty shelves and mezzanine floors that now held little more than dust and fading labels. On the other side of the corridor were doors leading into offices, a canteen area and toilets.

  Ahmad was unsure what to do. The unlocked door made it seem more likely there was someone in the building but the warehouse was completely quiet. Outside, the rain was getting heavier and, when he stopped, Ahmad became conscious of how cold he was. A crust of dried blood covered one cheek from where he scratched his face on some thorns getting down to the riverbank and his hands were coated with mud.

  Looking around warily and listening out in case he heard someone, Ahmad closed the door behind him. He paused: tense and ready to bolt, but the silence stayed unbroken. After a while he made his way down the corridor. He needed the toilet and, if nothing else, that gave him some kind of excuse for being in the building.

  Ahmad had assumed everything in the building would be turned off and the best he expected to find inside the toilets was running water. But the lights worked when he tried the switch and when a small geyser on the wall started producing scalding hot water he did a little dance of delight. With relief, Ahmad began washing his face and hands. Using bundles of paper towels, he also sponged the worst of the mud from his clothes. Once the cleanup was complete, he stood and basked in the hot air pumped out by the hand dryer.

  Once Ahmad had finished cleaning himself up, he left the toilets and went back into the corridor. He planned on leaving the warehouse and trying to find an easier way out than climbing back down onto the riverbank. When he opened the door, though, and saw the snow coming down he decided to stay put.

  The first thing he did next was to glance into all the offices off the corridor. But there were no signs of life anywhere: no people to be seen, no sounds of things moving or equipment operating, and no lights on. Next he investigated the canteen: discovering a kettle but nothing with which to make a drink. In the back of a cupboard, he found a packet of bourbon biscuits: a month past the best before date but still crisp enough to eat.

  The doors into the warehouse itself were both locked but at the far end the corridor turned right. Stairs led up into an area of workshops. It was like a long hall lit by grubby skylights. Lockers and equipment racks lined the walls and a row of benches where lathes and drills had once been mounted stood in a neat line. Pale patches on the walls showed where notices had once been fixed.

  It did not look very interesting and Ahmad had been about to turn and leave the workshop area when he noticed the door with the padlock.

  Now, he reached out and touched the big brass lock. The metal was cool and slick beneath his fingers. He looked at the tiny gap between barrel and hasp. Gently compressing the lock in his hand, he watched the U-shaped hasp slide down into the lock. A faint vibration came through the metal and he released the lock. The hasp sprang back into its
original position.

  Ahmad looked again at the lock. Whoever closed the door had been careless or in a hurry. Or perhaps there was nothing valuable in there now. But with the door left unsecured, it might be worth taking a peep at what lay on the other side.

  He twisted the barrel. The hasp was still through the metal loop on the door but there was nothing to stop him lifting it out and pulling back the hinged flap of steel behind it. With a couple of nervous glances over his shoulder, Ahmad removed the lock, placed it on the floor and pulled back the metal flap.

  Ahmad bit his lip as he turned the handle. It moved without a sound and, with the help of the most cautious of tugs, the door swung open.

  Inside was an unlit stairwell. Ahmad paused, listening but heard nothing except the beating of his own heart.

  It was only as he stepped forward that he noticed the writing on the walls. He had been looking for a light switch and, for an instant, mistook the writing for a painted line on the wall. As his eyes registered it as writing, his next reaction was that it was graffiti but he soon realised it was too neat. He frowned as he read some of the words. He did not know the passage but recognised what it was from its style and subject. Something religious. Not from the Koran: it was not a verse he had been taught. It sounded similar though.

  He stared at it in puzzlement. Maybe from the Bible or some Jewish book.

  With his eyes adjusted to the gloom in the stairwell, Ahmad followed the line of writing. It started inside the door and continued along the walls, around a landing, on down the next flight of steps and out of sight.

  Moving warily, one hand on the railing, Ahmad followed the first flight of stairs to the landing. There was a light switch next to the door but either the power was off or the bulb had burnt out. The only light came from the skylights in the workshop area and, now he was halfway down the stairs, the door seemed much further away than just a dozen feet.