A Good Death

by Chris Collett

  ‘Nothing to do with me.’ He wiped the perspiration from his upper lip with his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Call for an ambulance,’ ordered Mariner, then to the unconscious constable: ‘Bingley, can you hear me? Kevin?’ Kneeling down he started to loosen Bingley’s collar, and in doing so his fingers caught on a chain around his neck. He pulled it out. ‘Shit,’ Mariner said. ‘He’s diabetic. He’s gone into a coma.’

  There was the beat of a pause before Jesson said: ‘Oh God; he wasn’t wanking, he was injecting himself.’ Mariner looked at her askance, just as, over her shoulder, the forensics team low loader pulled into the compound.

  Part way through her second week at the university, Suzy was beginning to feel more settled, and for the first time in a while she was looking forward to going home. She’d woken up on Tuesday morning after yet another fantastic night’s sleep, feeling rested and refreshed. She had taken to the foibles of Y Worry more easily than she’d expected, not least because of the wonderful peace and quiet. Apart from the odd car passing by, all she heard on waking in the early morning was the sound of birdsong. After living in Cambridge city centre and then the university halls of residence, it was blissful. What had been harder to adjust to was the darkness, but the daylight hours were lengthening and soon that would just seem normal too. She was also encouraged that somehow, bizarrely, the move seemed to be getting her relationship with Tom back on track. And the drive in to work was something to be relished; just fifteen minutes, door-to-door, on a good day. Life felt good.

  Driving through the village this morning, though, she’d been brought up short by the sight of a man in clerical attire emerging from the gate of Rosalind’s house. She went cold inside – it wasn’t yet eight o’clock. Why would a vicar be visiting them at this hour? She slowed a moment, wondering whether she should stop to see if there was anything she could do. But the reality was that she hardly knew Rosalind and Gideon, and if something had happened, she wouldn’t want to get in the way.

  When she got to the faculty there was so much to do that Suzy didn’t have time to give Rosalind and Gideon much more thought, until now. Late in the afternoon there were a number of references she needed to collate, but the software that would enable her to do this hadn’t yet been loaded on to her new machine by IT. Suzy felt sure that in her absence, Rosalind wouldn’t mind if she borrowed her computer. As Suzy booted it up and logged in, a news alert appeared from an organisation called Journey’s End. It looked faintly religious, so she ignored it and carried on with her work. It did, however, serve to remind her of what she’d seen this morning, so after work Suzy drove home to Y Worry, then walked round to Rosalind’s house, all the time wondering what she would find. Only Rosalind’s car was on the drive, so Suzy tentatively knocked on the door.

  ‘It’s open!’ she heard Rosalind call, so she went in. Rosalind was in the kitchen loading the washing machine.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Suzy asked.

  Rosalind seemed surprised. ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘I saw a clergyman coming out of your house this morning when I was driving by,’ said Suzy. ‘Actually, I feared the worst.’

  Rosalind laughed. ‘Oh no, Gideon’s fine. He’s sleeping now, otherwise I’d—’

  ‘No, please, don’t disturb him,’ said Suzy. ‘You’re busy, and I’ve got work to do anyway.’

  ‘The man you saw was Father Peter,’ explained Rosalind. ‘I’d asked him to call in to see Gideon, and he’s very good at coming in at odd times, when Gideon is at his most alert.’

  ‘I didn’t realise Gideon was Catholic,’ said Suzy.

  ‘We both are,’ said Rosalind. ‘I try to get to Mass and confession when I can, but it’s difficult to get away, of course. Gideon’s carer comes in to cover while I’m at work, but I can’t really ask her to do any more.’

  ‘I’d be happy to come and sit with him,’ Suzy offered.

  Rosalind’s eyes lit up. ‘Really, would you? It’s on Saturday morning. I wouldn’t want to mess up your weekend.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Suzy. ‘I’d love to talk to Gideon some more. I can pick his brains.’

  ‘That would be wonderful. I used to go at about ten, is that OK?’

  ‘It’s a date,’ said Suzy.

  TWENTY

  The drama at Carter’s was over quickly. Bingley was taken off in an ambulance, while Mariner and Jesson saw Sam Fleetwood’s car transported away by the forensic service. That evening Mariner phoned the hospital to check on how Bingley was doing, but learned that he’d been discharged, so he went to see him at his home. Wherever possible Mariner avoided putting his officers at risk and he felt bad about it. He didn’t think Bingley was the sort to make a complaint, but Mariner had to accept that he’d been negligent in finding out the facts about his restricted duties. Bingley himself came to the door of the small Edwardian terrace, and he looked OK, which was encouraging. ‘What are you doing here, sir?’ he asked, casting a glance behind him.

  ‘I just came to see how you are,’ said Mariner.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Bingley, and they stood awkwardly for a moment until he finally added: ‘Did you want to come in? I’m sorry, it’s not very—’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Mariner. ‘Remember, I’m a sad git who lives on his own. Sometimes I don’t even do the washing up.’ It was meant as a joke but he wasn’t sure that Bingley got it. He took Mariner through to a living room where an older lady sat watching TV. Seeing Mariner, her face lit up. ‘Hello, pet.’ She scrutinised him carefully. ‘Are you one of our Kevin’s friends?’ Pride in her son was evident all over the walls and mantelpiece: Bingley as a baby with a stuffed animal as big as him; Bingley in his first school uniform; Bingley in the not-too-distant past, at his passing out at Hendon.

  ‘No, Mum,’ Bingley blinked at her. ‘This is my boss, DCI Mariner.’

  ‘Tom,’ Mariner told her, leaning forward to shake her hand.

  ‘Oh. Nice to meet you, Tom. How’s our Kevin—’

  ‘We’ll go through to the kitchen,’ Bingley cut in. ‘Would you like a beer, sir?’

  ‘It’s Tom when we’re off-duty,’ said Mariner. ‘OK, I’m driving, but one won’t hurt.’

  Bingley disappeared into a pantry. ‘Hobgoblin, Speckled Hen or Marston’s IPA?’ he called.

  ‘Speckled Hen,’ said Mariner approvingly. ‘And out of the bottle is fine.’

  He took a seat at the kitchen table, forcing Bingley to follow suit. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘That’s what I’m supposed to ask you,’ said Mariner.

  ‘I’m sorry about this afternoon,’ Bingley said. ‘I didn’t mean to cause a fuss. Usually I manage, and while I’m on restricted, I didn’t think I would ever get into a situation where it would matter. When I had to wait, I knew I was pushing it, but I thought I could get away with it. I didn’t want to—’

  ‘You’re not in any trouble,’ said Mariner. ‘I’m honestly just here to make sure you’re all right. It’s my fault for not fully discussing your health issues with you. We have a duty of care.’

  ‘You can’t discuss what you don’t know,’ Bingley pointed out. ‘I was only diagnosed last year, and I don’t want it to stop me doing my job, so I suppose I try to play it down.’

  ‘And the metal plate in your head?’

  ‘An argument with a baseball bat – in someone else’s hands, not mine,’ he added, with a wry smile.

  ‘Is that why you’re thinking of bailing?’ Mariner asked.

  Bingley stared at him, wondering where that had come from. ‘I always wanted to be in the police,’ he said. ‘I would have joined from school but my dad wasn’t having it. A lot of his family were miners.’

  ‘Something else we’ve got in common then,’ said Mariner. ‘My mum was a peace protester. It wasn’t exactly what she had in mind for me either.’

  As Mariner was leaving, he called out: ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Bingley.’

  He was met with another broad
smile. ‘Lovely to meet you too, pet.’

  ‘This isn’t my ideal set-up,’ Bingley said, at the door. ‘Dad died not long ago, and it was rough towards the end. I came down to help her out. I think she’ll move back up north eventually, but meanwhile …’

  ‘Nothing wrong with taking care of your mum,’ said Mariner, knowing that he’d fallen some way short in that respect. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Bingley.’

  Millie was determined to get in early on Wednesday morning, as she knew she’d be playing catch-up with what she’d missed on her days off. It felt oddly disorientating to see that there had been some significant progress while she wasn’t here, most of it recorded by Mariner only the night before. ‘I see you had quite a day yesterday,’ she said to Bingley when he arrived.

  Bingley groaned. ‘It was embarrassing.’

  Millie looked quizzically at him. ‘You found Sam Fleetwood’s car, didn’t you?’

  ‘Oh, that.’

  Millie regarded him curiously. ‘What did you think I meant?’

  Bingley explained the dramatic turn things had taken.

  ‘Well, you’re OK now, aren’t you?’ said Millie pragmatically. ‘Did you find anything useful in the car?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Bingley. ‘But I’m hoping forensics will get back to us later in the day.’

  ‘That’s optimistic,’ said Millie. ‘What made you go out to Carter’s in the first place?’

  Bingley summarised his conversations with Sam Fleetwood’s work colleagues.

  ‘So that’s what Zara meant when she said Figgis couldn’t be trusted,’ said Millie.

  ‘It made me wonder if Fleetwood went to have another look at Carter’s, to try and get something incriminating; something watertight. It’s what we would do. If he did, there are at least two people who wouldn’t want that to happen; Carter and Figgis. And if Figgis knows Carter’s well enough to have been paid off by Carter, they could be in collusion.’

  ‘That would make sense,’ said Millie. ‘So what do you think happened?’

  ‘Fleetwood goes out there, in the middle of the night. George Carter catches him snooping around. Maybe an argument gets out of hand, or maybe it’s a cold-blooded murder. Whichever it is, Carter disposes of Sam’s body – conveniently they have an industrial incinerator on-site – then sets fire to Sam’s car to make it look like joyriders stole it, and to get rid of any incriminating evidence. It might actually be true that Danny Carter just found it, without knowing it was his older brother who dumped it.’

  ‘You’re not bad at this,’ said Millie. ‘And Figgis?’

  ‘Might or might not have been involved,’ said Bingley. ‘Danny Carter has a history too,’ he added. ‘He didn’t go to a regular school; he finished up at a PRU.’

  ‘What’s one of those?’ asked Millie.

  ‘A pupil referral unit. It’s for kids who get excluded because of their behaviour. There were some incidents of arson. He’s quite the expert fire-setter, is our Danny. I’ve come across the name Danny Carter before, too.’

  ‘It’s probably not that uncommon,’ said Millie.

  ‘No, I mean in the last week,’ said Bingley. ‘The fire on Wellington Road. Jordan Wright and Danny Carter are mates. I saw it on Facebook.’

  ‘You might want to run that by Tom and Vicky.’

  The phone on Bingley’s desk rang and he picked it up. ‘It’s the forensic service,’ he said, covering the mouthpiece. ‘They’ve got something on the car.’

  ‘That was quick,’ said Millie, also feeling slightly miffed that they’d called through to Bingley and not directly to her.

  ‘Well, maybe they think it’s important.’

  ‘Or …?’

  ‘I sort of know one of the technicians there, Sasha,’ Bingley blushed. ‘I’ll transfer it.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Sasha turned out to be a woman. ‘We’ve got some good samples,’ she told Millie. ‘Predominantly two sets of prints all over the front interior. They’re a match for the ones you sent through from your MisPer and his fiancée. But we’ve also got some additional smudged prints on the steering wheel. They’re partials, so I’m not sure what help they’ll be. Could be joyriders. They tend not to have the foresight to wear gloves. What’s much more interesting is what we’ve found in the boot: blood and quite a bit of it.’

  ‘Like someone’s cut themselves?’ asked Millie cautiously.

  ‘Could be,’ said Sasha. ‘But it’s a significant amount; more than you might expect for just a straightforward cut, and it has pooled in several different places, as if it’s leaked out from something. I can’t give you any more detail at this stage, but of course we’ll get it all off to the lab pronto. And if you can get some DNA material to us for comparisons, we might be able to tell you whose blood it is.’

  Millie went straight to Mariner, and caught him just as he was leaving his office, on his way down to a viewing suite, along with Vicky Jesson.

  ‘Surely this is a game changer,’ she said. ‘It’s the first solid indication that Sam Fleetwood might have come to grief.’

  Mariner was in agreement. ‘And given that there have been no sightings of him for more than a week now, it puts him in the high-risk category. You need to start verifying movements and alibis.’

  ‘And I’m going to pay the Carters another visit,’ said Millie.

  ‘Be careful,’ said Mariner. ‘A lot of these outfits have links to organised crime. Don’t underestimate how dangerous they might be.’

  ‘I’ll take Bingley.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be a help,’ said Mariner, with a touch of sarcasm, before realising it was probably true.

  The taxi driver who’d taken Talayeh to Digbeth had not yet surfaced, but transport police had contacted Mariner to say that they had retrieved and sent through footage from the bus station on the afternoon before the fire. Now he and Vicky Jesson were studying it, watching for Talayeh Farzi to appear. The recovery parameter was broad, with several cameras picking up the outside waiting area, the ticket office and the coach parking bays. It was here that they spotted Talayeh as she walked into the station after being dropped off by the taxi. ‘Look at the time,’ said Mariner. The digital clock in the right-hand corner of the screen said 14.38. ‘She’s already missed her bus.’

  Talayeh looked anxious and glazed over and Mariner wondered about what kind of person it was who would send a young woman hundreds of miles away from home, when she knew little of the country or the people she was going to stay with. As if to underline this, both he and Jesson winced as Talayeh stepped right into the path of an incoming coach and its horn blared, sending her scuttling to the pavement.

  Jesson sucked in air. ‘That was a close one.’

  They watched Taleyah go into the ticket office, emerging minutes later. Then, after some apparent uncertainty, she turned and went into the cafeteria.

  ‘Well, it confirms that she got to the bus station, but clearly she didn’t get on the coach to Bradford,’ said Mariner.

  ‘Do you think the whole charade could have been staged to give an impression that she had left?’ Jesson speculated. ‘She might have been told to get a ticket to make it look as if she was leaving.’

  ‘Possible,’ said Mariner. ‘But why? It’s a lot of trouble to go to.’

  They couldn’t see Talayeh’s movements inside the cafe, and had to fast-forward through the footage for more than half an hour. Finally, almost off-camera, they spotted her again, coming outside. She was with a man in a suit, with dark hair.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Jesson wondered aloud. ‘Anyone we know?’ They couldn’t get a clear view of his face. ‘It’s not Mustafa Shah; we know he was out of the country.’

  ‘Kaspa Rani is the only other man we know for certain she met in Birmingham,’ said Mariner. ‘We need to talk to him as a matter of urgency.’

  Kaspa Rani’s success was founded on a large cash and carry empire, based largely in Hackney, but with further branches in Coventry and Birmin
gham. Mariner and Jesson went to interview him there in his office, having agreed that Jesson would lead. They wanted to rattle him.

  Wherever the profits went for his enterprise, it wasn’t on decor, the only extravagance being a well-stocked drinks cabinet for loosening up clients. There were however indications that this was about to be addressed: dust sheets were folded on the floor in a corner, weighed down by white spirit and tins of paint.

  Rani, on the other hand, was a walking gold mine, and a considerable amount had been invested in the Rolex – if it was real – and the chunky chains around his neck and wrists. When he stood up to greet them he was, Jesson noticed, shorter than her and barrel-shaped. What was left of Rani’s hair was slicked back over his ears. He looked about fifty.

  ‘Tell us about your relationship with the Shah family,’ said Jesson first of all.

  ‘Mustafa is a good friend,’ Rani said, addressing Mariner. ‘We have known each other many years, and I knew his father-in-law Soltan. A good man.’

  ‘And Talayeh?’

  ‘That is very sad,’ Rani said, with no emotion whatever, and as if no further comment was required.

  ‘Especially since, not long ago, she was presented to you as a potential wife,’ said Jesson.

  Rani smiled. ‘It was discussed,’ he conceded.

  ‘But I understand that Talayeh had come to this country specifically with the aim of marrying you.’

  Rani’s eyes narrowed a little, and he finally looked at Jesson. ‘Then you have been misinformed. Talayeh and I were introduced, but it quickly became clear that she would not be a suitable wife. She did not display any of the qualities that I admire in a woman, like modesty and respect. I have no time for women like her.’