Marlo let Ali hold her, resting her head on his shoulder.
‘You’re right,’ she mumbled against him, ‘it does feel better getting it out.’
‘Told you so,’ said Ali, kissing her on the head. ‘Now that we are both about ten tons lighter though, I reckon it’s time we got some more sleep. Bedroom?’
Marlo nodded, got to her feet and shyly held out her hand.
17th November, 0610 hours – Connor’s Parent’s residence, Sunderland
Fred parked his car outside the front of the house and rested his head on the steering wheel. He’d had a shit night; one of the girls had been found dead in the brothel – the fourth one in six weeks. This wasn’t just an overdose though: one of the johns had been a little too kinky and she’d died in the throes of his orgasm. Needless to say he wouldn’t be coming back to see Fred’s girls. He’d left with a broken nose, bruised pride and an attitude that stunk to high heaven.
Fred wasn’t too bothered about the girl, there was plenty more where she came from: it was more the fact he’d had to drive out to the moors in the dead of night to dump the body. Over the years he’d lost count of the number of bodies he’d dumped out there. Nature and the wildlife were great at disposing of bodies.
He rubbed his eyes. He felt too old for this shit today.
Pushing the front door open, he paused momentarily, confused by the silence. Normally Sheila was raging holy hell when he came round on a morning.
‘James,’ he yelled, cocking his head to one side and listening.
Hearing a whimper from upstairs, he made his way up to their bedroom.
It was the smell that hit him first. The central heating had kicked in a while ago from the stuffy temperature in the house, and the heat had exacerbated the stench.
Sheila was lying in bed with the duvet curled at her feet. Beneath and around her was a pool of her own piss and shit, and it had been there a while.
‘Sheila, where’s James?’ he asked, crossing the room and trying not to wrinkle his nose in disgust.
Vacantly, she looked up. ‘I made a mess,’ she whispered forlornly.
‘It’s OK, let’s get you cleaned up,’ he sighed.
It took him a good fifteen minutes to get her cleaned down and seated in her chair with a cup of tea. He left the bed, though: there was no way he was taking care of that mess.
Leaving Sheila, he went searching for James. His clothes were in the wardrobe so he hadn’t done a bunk.
He wasn’t anywhere in the house and Fred realised the only place left was the shed. On his way down the path, he smiled to himself. His adopted brother was a sick fuck – they were cut from the same cloth, even if they didn’t get on. He knew James had spent all their life savings on the girls from Fred’s brothel. Hell, he even knew James had pilfered a couple of thousand from Marie’s student account – she’d phoned Fred in tears, unable to pay her university fees. And like a dutiful dad, he’d handed over the money.
Connor had always been a little shit, but he had a soft spot for his little girl.
He didn’t quite understand why he’d never confronted James about the money though, brotherly love maybe? Not bloody likely.
The shed door was unlocked – that was his first warning that something was wrong. Fred had some idea about what went on behind that door, and James always made sure it was locked.
Pushing, he realised something was behind the door, something heavy. Shoving hard, he squeezed through the gap and into the shed itself.
‘Shit,’ he gasped, jumping backwards as he came face to shoulder with a very dead James. His face had a bluey-grey hue, his tongue protruded from his mouth, and the rope round his neck had left deep grooves where it had taken the man’s weight.
‘What the fuck have you done, you dumb son of a bitch?’ said Fred, kicking out at James’ leg. Looking around, he quickly found the note and read it carefully. ‘You snivelling little bastard, grassing me up to end your guilt? This note didn’t exist,’ he enunciated the last part of the sentence slowly. He felt anger burn at the attempted betrayal. ‘If you weren’t dead already I’d fucking kill you, you useless bastard.’
He was so busy cursing he didn’t realise the door had opened until Connor squeezed through the gap. Fred couldn’t help but grin at the way Connor’s face paled as he saw the man he’d always believed to be his dad reduced to a lump of flesh swinging from a rope.
‘Noooo!’ cried Connor, taking his dad’s weight and screaming at Fred to help him.
‘That’s not gunna happen, Son,’ said Fred calmly, a recovery plan starting to unfold in his mind.
‘Fred, please,’ begged Connor, ‘I don’t care about all the other shit, please help him, he’s your brother, please.’ His voice broke as he continued, ‘He’s my dad, please, help me.’ Connor dropped to his knees, tears coursing down his cheeks.
‘He was my adopted brother, and one I never really cared for,’ said Fred. ‘He’s a bloody coward, is what he is. Killing himself like this, leaving you all with nothing but a guilty plea.’ He waved the note under Connor’s nose. ‘That’s right, lad. Your dad was nothing but a sick fuck. It’s all in here. But he’s not taking me down with him. Quit your whining and look around, boy. Does this look like your typical shed?’
17th November, 0645 hours – Connor’s parent’s house, Sunderland
Connor stood and looked around, confusion settling on his features amidst the streaks on his cheeks. ‘What the fuck is all this stuff?’ he said quietly, as if whispering would make it all go away. ‘Let me see the note,’ he demanded, stepping towards Fred.
Fred handed it over watching as he read.
As he read, he felt himself detach from his body as a wave of dizziness overcame him. My dad’s a killer? He killed girls?
Suddenly it clicked – the reservoir had been their favourite picnic spot when they were kids. They’d gone there several times a year; his dad loved it. Apparently so much that he’d decided to dump dead girls in the water there for Connor to fish out.
‘Why, Dad?’ he whispered, distraught.
‘’Cos he was a sick fucker, that’s why,’ said Fred. ‘Doesn’t matter anyway, you’re gunna help me clean this mess up.’
‘No, Fred. I’m not. I’m going to ring this in. Dad made his bed, he can lie in it. I’m not covering for him, and I’m certainly not covering for you.’
He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled 999.
‘You put that phone down right now, lad, or so help me I’ll –’
‘You’ll what? Shiv me like you threatened the other day? Kill me? Do what you want, Fred, I said I’m phoning this in.’
Connor pressed the dial key and put the phone to his ear.
The roar that came from Fred was guttural, as he viciously whacked the phone from Connor’s grasp. Connor noticed the glint of the switch blade Fred had pulled from somewhere about his person as it arced towards him. Blocking the blow, Connor yelled out, ‘Get the fuck away from me with that knife, Fred. My career is over anyway, I’m not taking any more of this shit. Get off me!’ Fred brought his palm up to impact with the bottom of Connor’s nose, almost blinding him with the blood that spurted forth. Connor stepped back and brought his knee into Fred’s groin, propelling him backwards towards the door.
‘You’re not taking me down. I’ve built up too much to let a prick like you ruin it. Just die already you fucking twat!’ As Fred spat the words in Connor’s face, he brought the knife round and rammed it upwards, hard. Connor felt the blade slice into the soft flesh of his stomach, and just as he thought it couldn’t go in any deeper, he felt the hilt split his skin even further apart. Then Fred twisted it sharply, grunting as he tried to push it in even farther.
Connor couldn’t let it end like this. He couldn’t let Fred get away. Blindly, he felt behind him and closed his hands round something with a wooden handle. Praying it was a hammer or something, he swung round and connected it with Fred’s temple. Fred dropped like a tonne of br
icks, the mallet more than sufficient to knock him unconscious. As he’d fallen, his hand had maintained its hold on the knife handle and the blade had slipped from Connor’s stomach.
Connor vaguely heard the mallet clatter to the floor, and looked down as his fingers pressed against the gaping wound in his stomach. Blood poured steadily, rapidly soaking the waist band to his trousers. Damn, this burns. I thought it would hurt more.
Dropping to his knees, he noticed his mobile phone within reach. With blood soaked fingers, he picked the phone up and gabbled, ‘The bastard fucking stabbed me. He stabbed me… I’m sorry. Jesus, this fucking hurts. Sorry. I’m at 22 East Lea in Ryhope in the shed. I might’ve killed him, but he stabbed me. With a fucking knife. And my dad’s dead, swinging there like a fucking monkey in a tree.’ Shock caused him to start giggling hysterically, and the phone fell to the floor with a clatter. Following suit, Connor slid to the floor with a soft sigh. ‘Hurry,’ he whispered as he passed out.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
17th November, 0805 hours - Dive Team HQ, South Shields
'Guys, settle down. I've got stuff to pass over.' Sharpie's voice was stern and Marlo looked up expectantly, pausing from taking the Micky out of Doc's bed-hair.
'Where's Connor?' asked Mac, glancing around.
'That's what I need to tell you,' said Sharpie. 'This morning Connor rang 999 from his parent's address. I don't know the full circumstances yet, but Connor's currently in theatre after being stabbed in the stomach. It's touch-and-go at this stage: he'd lost a lot of blood. His dad was found dead, a presumed suicide. His uncle has a serious head injury and is in intensive care.'
Marlo, Mac and Doc sat back in their chairs, too shocked to speak.
'Obviously, we all wanna be at the hospital,' continued Sharpie, 'but with Bravo Team on rest days, we are already short. We've pulled poor Angelo in on overtime as it is – he's gunna be working with us today at the reservoir. We'll try and get wrapped up asap so anyone who wants to can visit the hospital. Alex is handling the case and he's promised to let us know as soon as there's any updates.'
Silently, the team filtered down to the wet room to get the gear together.
‘I should’ve made him talk to me. He’s been off for a couple of days now,’ said
Marlo.
'There's a difference between being a bit off, and being mixed up in something so bad you end up getting stabbed. What the fuck was the kid into?' asked Mac, shaking his head.
'Come on, Mac, don't be judging,’ said Doc, ‘we all have shit at home we don't bring to work. When we speak to him we'll find out what's been going on. ’Til then anything else is just gossip and hearsay, and you know how I feel about that. And Marlo, if Connor had wanted you to know, he'd have told you. Now, what say we crack on with this search? The sooner we get it done, the quicker we'll get to the hospital.' Doc's words were wise, and both Marlo and Mac nodded their agreement before focussing on gathering the kit they needed.
17th November, 0820 hours – Sunderland City Police HQ
Ali walked into the Major Incident Team office and momentarily thought he’d wandered into the wrong one. Every seat was taken, the bustle already loud, and Alex stood at a large whiteboard in the middle of the room.
‘What’s going on, bro?’ Ali asked, looking at the paperwork pinned up already.
‘’You know Connor, the lad off the dive team? He’s in critical condition in theatre – he was stabbed. It was like a bloody massacre site, Ali. His dad’s dead – hung himself from the looks of it. Connor was next to another male, believed to be his uncle, Fred Rockingham. Fred had been clocked upside the head with a mallet. He’s in ICU. It’s touch and go for both of them. We’re still trying to piece together what the heck happened.’
‘Bloody hell, you’ll have to keep me updated, and give me a shout if I can do anything. Has Marlo been… I mean, does the dive team know?’ Ali had the grace to blush – his thoughts heading straight for Marlo rather than the team as a whole.
‘It’s OK, Mum’s already brought me up to speed on the whole you and Marlo thing. It’s about time. She seems canny. And yes, the team knows. Their sergeant, Sharp I think it is, has said they’ll still be working your murder scene. They’ll be heading out about now I think. I spoke to him like forty minutes ago. Charlie was in a bit ago: she’s moving your case boards into the side office. Seven murders huh? I’m not the only one with my work cut out. Shout up if you need anything.’
‘Will do. They’re all kids, Alex, wee bairns can’t be more than maybe seventeen or eighteen. Whoever did this is one sick fucker.’
‘Sure it’s the same guy?’
‘Aye pretty sure, same MO for each. The PMs are today and tomorrow though so they should help confirm.’
Alex nodded, then turned his attention back to his own team.
17th November, 1100 hours – Crankle Reservoir, south of Sunderland
The temperature had risen slightly, and ominous looking white clouds floated in from the south, threatening snow. The whole region was on a yellow weather alert warning from the met office; severe winter storms and ice due any moment. The fresh scent of snow hung in the air and even the birds were quiet. It was never good when the birds hunkered down.
Days like this were tough at the best of times, let alone when they were worried about one of their own.
Sharpie had used a map to section off the reservoir, and the team was using the sonar to scan each section individually. So far they hadn't picked anything up that was of similar size and structure to that of the bodies recovered.
The radio burst to life in the bow of the RIB and Marlo picked it up and depressed the speech button, 'This is Buck, go ahead, over.'
'Marlo? It's Ali. Can you speak?'
'Yeah sure, Ali, what's up?' Her stomach had flipped over at the sound of his voice, and she smiled widely much to the amusement of Doc and Mac who happened to be sitting next to her.
'Just an update on Connor, love. He's out of surgery, still on a ventilator in intensive care, but doing as well as he can be. Alex said they're keeping him in a medically-induced coma until at least tomorrow. His sister's on her way back up from university.’
‘OK, thanks, Ali. Erm, I know his mum wasn’t too good. Is she OK?’
‘Yeah, Alex has taken care of it. She’s in a respite home for the time being. We’ll see what her daughter wants to do when she gets here, though it’ll be primarily down to social services, I think. Alex said she’s pretty far gone, doesn’t have a clue what’s going on.’
‘I guess that’s a good thing,’ said Marlo, sadness tingeing her voice.
‘Aye. I’ll see you when you get back to shore.’
‘OK, Buck out.’
She turned to see all eyes on her, and it didn’t surprise her to see them as confused as she felt. What on earth had Connor been into?
‘You guys heard that?’ She raised her eyebrows in question.
‘Yeah we heard – that and more,’ Mac winked slyly at Doc, ‘Marlo and the DI seem pretty pally there, like, what do you reckon?’
‘Sure do, Mac. I’d almost bet my wages they were getting more than pally,’ Doc smiled at Marlo and winked back at Mac.
‘Come on guys, stop ribbing Marlo,’ said Sharpie. ‘The DI’s alright, he is, and whether there’s anything going on or not, it’s no one’s business but theirs.’
‘We’re only teasing, Marlo knows that, don’t you, hon?’ said Mac, elbowing Marlo gently in the arm. ‘You tell him from me though, that if he hurts you we all know how to bury people underwater so they don’t pop back up, and we know the best places to do such a thing.’ His tone was light but Marlo knew he meant it. The team couldn’t have been closer if they actually were family. Mac and Doc were the big, over-protective brothers she’d never had, and if she was brutally honest, she loved that they looked out for her. Not that she’d ever tell them that.
In truth, she didn’t know what it was between her and Ali yet anyway. This morning hadn�
��t been awkward; she’d thought it might be, but they’d sat drinking coffee and chatting like they did it every morning. It all still felt a little surreal.
Pulling herself back into the here and now, she focussed her gaze back on the sonar screen. Wouldn’t do to miss anything.
17th November, 1245 hours – Mortuary, Sunderland Royal Hospital
‘OK, guys, I think it’s about time we broke for lunch,’ said Nigel Evans, glancing around the mortuary examination room for confirmation.
So far, they’d done two of the six post mortems. They’d started in the order the girls had been pulled out of the water, so newest kill first. She’d only been in the water maybe twelve hours when she’d been found. Her injuries were marginally different from the second body he’d looked at; different broken bones, but strangulation the definitive cause of death.
Following the CSIs, he made his way to the wash room and cleaned down before stripping out of his protective clothing and heading to the kitchen.
‘Hey, Nigel,’ said Ali, ‘your Earl Grey’s on the side. I arrived half way through the second PM. Didn’t want to disturb you so I stayed in the viewing room.’
‘Anyone want owt from the canteen?’ asked Deena, glancing round before standing with Johnny. ‘We’re heading over now. Didn’t bring bait.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a sarnie please, love. Anything is fine, and a bottle of coke.’ Ali pulled some coins out and handed them over. Deena and Johnny left, leaving Ali, Cass and Nigel sat together at the table.
‘So what’ve we got, Nigel?’ asked Ali.
‘Both females examined so far are approximately 16-18 years old. Can’t say much more than that I’m afraid. Even bone density tests will only give an approximate age. They’re both of Southeast Asian ethnicity at a guess from the bone structure and features - I’d say possibly Filipino. Again the tests will confirm this. The first one pulled out was immersed no more than twenty-four hours prior to the body being located. Allowing for the water temperature’s impact on body temperature, and the ambient outside the water, I’d say she was killed between 1800 and 2000 hours last night. There was no presence of diatoms in her lungs so she was dead before being dumped in the water. She had track marks to her arms, not fresh but obtained during the last two to three weeks. She was sexually active, though no trace was found inside the vaginal cavity. That said the UV light has shown several older bruises to her inner thighs so there is a possibility she was raped. I’ve done the required swabs and combs of the pubic area, though there was nothing obvious. We did find skin under her fingernails, and since her hands were protected by the plastic sheeting, I’d be hopeful of an ident.’
Time to Play (North East Police) Page 22
