“Nev,” called Roly Smundle. “I think it’s time we pushed off, don’t you?” The lanky figure sitting outside the Coop jumped to his feet and patted his coat down like he was brushing dust from a fine tuxedo. He picked up the sleeping bag he’d been sitting on and draped it over his shoulders.
“Not fair,” called Nev Grint. “I’d just got cosy, as well.”
“Cosy?!!” snapped the old woman.
“Now, now,” said Dawson. “Calm down.” Dawson stepped past the wide-eyed, panic-stricken looking PCSO Kaplan and took control with a toothpaste-commercial smile.
“I’ll move them on for you, ladies. After that, there’ll be no more trouble.”
The woman nodded, her resolve weakened by the burly copper’s rugged smile. PCSO Bec Rawlins grinned, recognising Rob’s usual tactics at work. Kaplan remained frozen in place. She looked downcast.
“It’s okay, Ecrin,” said Bec, putting a hand on her new colleague’s shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up. I knew Dawson was around. Why have a dog and bark yourself, eh?”
Dawson heard the comment and shot Rawlins a look. Good job she was good-looking as well as cheeky, or he would never have let her get away with stuff like that. Even so, he kept the stern look on his face for PCSO Kaplan’s benefit. The girl looked pained by the pressure of her new job.
“No more trouble?” said the mouthy younger woman, imitating Dawson’s words “Until next time that is. You coppers are all the same. You do nothing about these scumbags leaching off us on our own streets. It’s outrageous.”
“We do what we can, madam,” said Dawson. “Within the limits of the law.”
“Within the limits of what you can be bothered with more like. I know how it goes.”
Nev Grint picked up his begging mat and handwritten begging sign. Then he blew a kiss at the angry young woman.
“You cheeky bastard!” she snapped, stomping towards him. PCSO Rawlins blocked her path.
“Now, now, Ruth. Don’t stress yourself. He’s really not worth it,” said Rawlins.
She was good at her job. She knew the local people and she knew how to work with them. The angry woman tutted before nodding her head in defeat. Soon enough, as soon as the wastrels had made off down one of the side streets, the clusters of angry women muttered and started to disperse. The show was over. Or so it seemed.
“Go and get yourself a tea, Ecrin,” said Rawlins, nodding to the bakery. “You deserve it.”
“But I didn’t actually do anything. You guys did,” said Kaplan.
“You did,” said Rawlins. “You dealt with Roly Smundle and Nev Grint for the first time. Roly’s like poison. But don’t worry. A little of him each shift and you’ll soon build up a tolerance. Go on, grab yourself a tea. And two sugars for me, Ecrin.”
The girl nodded and crossed the street towards the bakers.
“I remember when you were like that,” said Dawson, folding his big arms across his chest.
“Like what?”
“Like a baby thrown in the deep end of the swimming pool. Floundering. But with you, it didn’t last long, did it? You soon found your feet.”
“I had to. It ended up being the ritual murder case, remember.”
Dawson shrugged and sighed, reluctant to visit bad old memories. “Either way, it was sink or swim, so you swam. But that girl, Kaplan. She’s bricking it. I don’t know how she’ll bed in. Where did they find her?”
“She’s from Thurrock.”
“With a name like Ecrin Kaplan?”
“Don’t be silly. Her family are foreign, I think. Ecrin’s second or third generation. Got to be,” said Rawlins.
“But where’s she from, originally?”
“I don’t know. But everyone’s family came from somewhere, right?”
“Sorry, little Miss Equality and Diversity. I was being nosy. That’s all. And you didn’t even order me a tea, did you?”
“That’s because a big important PC like you is too busy to hang around with the likes of us. But it was a stroke of luck that I caught you. I can deal with the likes of Nev Grint and Roly Smundle myself, but it takes so much longer. They drag it out because I’m a woman. By the time they’d moved on it could have been a fully-fledged incident.”
“Yeah. That young woman was itching for a fight.”
Dawson raised an eyebrow. “So... do I get a goodbye kiss?”
“Leave it out,” said Rawlins. “We’re on duty.”
“Never used to stop you,” said Dawson.
“They call it the honeymoon phase,” said Rawlins. “I can’t swoon all the time. And not in front of a newbie...”
PCSO Kaplan emerged from the bakers holding two cardboard cups with lids on. She smiled, looking pleased to have done something for her colleague, before her face wrinkled again. Dawson read her like a book. The girl had realised she had failed to buy him a drink. Dawson sighed. The girl was so green it made him wince.
“Dear me,” he muttered. “I’ll be off then, before I look at our new friend and make her cry. Catch you later, Bec.” Dawson gave Bec’s arm a momentary squeeze before he set off towards the traffic lights of London Road.
PCSO Kaplan crossed the street and Dawson lifted his arm to wave goodbye. Kaplan was no more than halfway across the road when a loud, guttural howl sounded somewhere down the street. Dawson spun around and looked back over his shoulder. Kaplan jumped and dropped a tea, which hit the street and burst all over the tarmac. The shoppers peered down the street to find the location of the latest drama, but there was nothing to be seen. Nothing... until a large, broad-shouldered man stormed out of the takeaway opposite the old department store. The man hung his head and pressed his face into his hands. He bent double and paused a moment before heaving and retching into the gutter.
“Jeez...” said Rawlins.
“What’s going on?” muttered a passer-by.
The man stood up, wiped his mouth and cast his eyes up and down the street. When he saw Dawson, Kaplan, and Rawlins, his eyes widened. He straightened his back and started to wave and call for their attention. He seemed crazed, beside himself. He waved again, emphatically, and started to walk towards them. Some of the shoppers stood to watch as if he was a madman.
“Please, help me! Please, come and help! I think he’s dead. My father! I think somebody killed him.”
The man’s voice was thickly accented and shook with distress.
“Killed him?” said one of the crowd.
PC Dawson’s eyebrows dipped low over his eyes.
“Is he serious?” said another man, watching as the distressed man came towards them, ignoring the rubberneckers as he passed them by. There was a glaze of tears in his eyes. Dawson and Rawlins moved towards him. Kaplan followed, clutching her solitary tea.
“They killed him.”
“Please stay calm,” said Rawlins, reaching for the man’s hands.
“Killed who?” said Dawson as Ecrin Kaplan came up behind them. The big man looked at the young PSCO as he spoke.
“Baba Sen. My father. We own the kebab shop there, Authentic Kebab. Please. The bastards have killed my father...”
Dawson and Rawlins looked at one another. “Sir,” said Dawson. “We’ll come with you. We need to get you off the street.”
The man nodded. “Come. Come and see... please.”
Dawson followed as the man turned his back to lead the way. People stood around in the street and spoke in hushed tones. Rawlins turned to check on PCSO Kaplan, who saw the concern in Rawlins’ eyes. Before Rawlins had the chance to vocalise it, Kaplan nodded with a tepid smile.
“It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
Rawlins nodded. She would have to take Kaplan at her word. Seeing a dead body was always going to happen sometime. But it was really bad luck for Ecrin that it had to happen so soon after starting the job.
The big man led them into a dim shop front. Above the door was the black and white sign for a takeaway called ‘Authentic Kebab and Chicken’. The words had been
printed in a classy type face to suggest quality food. But the fraying décor inside and the smell was the same as any other takeaway – greasy with the stench of yesterday’s food and cloying air thick with cleaning chemicals and food waste. But Dawson also smelt a trace of something else, and it brought a growing sense of unease to the fore. Ecrin Kaplan eyed the shop sign as she walked in.
“Turkish?” she said.
The big man looked back at her but didn’t reply, as if he hadn’t heard. He looked bleary-eyed with shock and grief.
“Look. You must look. You will see...” he led them through the access-gate of the high counter and through the strip curtains by the kitchen doorway. He murmured as if in pain as he looked. Dawson gasped and Rawlins sighed as they took it in. A man they had both seen many times lay sprawled on his back on the tiles, his face battered and his eyes wide open behind his bloodied and broken spectacles. Catering-size drums of cooking oil were frozen in a tableau of disarray around the old man’s body.
“He is dead, no? Baba is dead... My Baba is dead?”
“We’ll have to call an ambulance... and my superiors too,” said Dawson quietly. He was about to make the call when a door slammed from the back of the building. A male voice could be heard calling out in a foreign tongue. The broad-shouldered man began to reply, but the newcomer hadn’t heard him. An elfish young man with a ponytail of dark hair emerged into the big steel kitchen. He looked at the body, froze, and stopped talking. His mouth dropped open and his dark eyes widened. The guy looked like he could have been in his teens or twenties. He gasped and ran towards the body, but the big man bustled into the kitchen and blocked the younger man, seizing him in a bear hug before Dawson could stop him.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen – I’m sorry,” said Dawson. “But you’ll need to vacate this area.”
The big man looked at him with a flash of anger and distress and Dawson knew he’d have a fight on his hands.
“Please. This is a crime scene, you must understand...”
The big man’s eyes blurred with tears.
The younger man groaned.
Dawson escorted them out of the kitchen and along the side corridor out into the customer area.
With a quiet sigh of relief, Dawson plucked his police transceiver from the front of his jacket and proceeded to call it in. He was grim-faced. It looked like a very long day ahead.
“Baba, Baba, Baba... what happened to him?” said the younger man. “No, please? Why?!”
The Turkish men muttered at each other before the young man broke down and started to sob.
“The poor, poor family,” said Ecrin, her eyes filling with tears beneath the peak of her PSCO cap. Dawson looked back at her.
“I’m afraid this is part of the job, PCSO Kaplan,” muttered Dawson. “I’m sorry all the same.”
“It’s not the body,” said Kaplan. “It’s the grief. The dead man. Baba? That’s the young man’s grandfather. And he is the other man’s father. That man, Baba, is head of their family.”
“Then you know these people?” said Rawlins. Her eyes were fastened on the blot of blood congealed around the top of the dead man’s bald head. Rawlins saw the man’s nose had been badly broken, but the big blot of blood on top of his head didn’t make sense. Not until she saw the large, bent chopping knife on the tiles...
Ecrin Kaplan shook her head. “No, but I understand what they are saying,” said the girl, keeping her voice to a respectful whisper.
“So you’re Turkish?” said Dawson.
“Kind of, but no. My family are Turkish Cypriot. But I understand this the same. Please, we must help them.”
“And we will,” said Dawson. “The only way we can.”
Three
The door to DCI Melford’s office opened at a most inopportune time as far as DS Palmer and DC Simmons were concerned. They both heard the click and swish of the door and started to walk away as fast as they could without seeming obvious, but it was no good. The DCI had seen them. The tall moustachioed man leaned out of his office, his ugly tie hanging straight from his neck like a reverse noose, and looked at their backs with grave, dead, dark eyes.
“You two. What’s up with you?”
Palmer arranged a neat, work-like smile on her face as she turned around. Simmons noticed her expression and tried to mirror it but he was far less successful and exposed the lie behind Palmer’s.
Melford frowned.
“We’re just about to look at some old CCTV footage from the Hartigan case, sir,” said Palmer. “It turns out there may have been some footage from the Grange Industrial Estate after all. The Irish Social Club had a webcam aimed through the glass. Could be handy for the court case if the CPS have footage of the confrontation.
“That Irish place? The windows were so dirty I’d be surprised if they could film anything through the glass. Besides, it’s already an open and shut case. It really shouldn’t be taking this long to get to court.”
Palmer couldn’t have agreed more. Her immediate superior, Detective Inspector Hogarth had been badly injured during a confrontation between two sets of criminals at a local run-down industrial estate hidden near the centre of town. Hogarth could have taken as long as six months off to recover if he’d wanted to. Many other coppers would have done exactly that. But she knew Hogarth was a brooding type when alone, a man of action who couldn’t take the boredom of being contained by four walls wherever they were – the hospital, his home, or even in the nick. The role of a senior detective could often be a desk job in nature, but DI Hogarth was not a desk detective and after being stabbed at The Grange, Hogarth had been off work for just over two months. His return was too soon, but the man had insisted his body had healed so that was the end of the matter. Hogarth’s wounds had healed before the culprit had even been sentenced. He was secure enough, locked up on remand, but Ryan Percy and his accomplices should have been banged up for a long stretch by now. Locked up for good. The wheels of justice often moved too slowly for anyone’s liking.
“Even so, sir, I think it’d be worth checking.”
“Palmer, there’s loyalty to your superior officer, and then there’s wasting your time.”
“Sir?”
“Ryan Percy and the rest will go down for a long time without needing any video evidence you can provide. Hogarth’s wound, the forensics, and all your witness statements will be more than enough.”
“Sir,” said Palmer, acquiescing without agreeing. She hoped Melford would get to his point so she could move on.
“So,” said Melford. “I just wanted to check if any of you had received any information on any threats against businesses in the town. Any businesses at all. Though the problem I’m thinking of might be centred around the Southchurch and Thorpe Bay end of town.”
“Sir?” said Palmer. Melford said nothing more, but he spent a moment reading Palmer’s confused frown.
“I suppose not, then? And Hogarth’s not mentioned anything along those lines? Any calls? Any reports? Any problems at all?”
“Sir, if he knows about it, he’s not passed the information on yet. Have you asked the uniforms?”
Melford nodded and started to withdraw back into his office. “Yes, yes. I’m all done there.”
“Threats against businesses. What threats do you mean, sir?” said Simmons, forcing Melford to pause with his office door open. Palmer kept her pained smile in place. She gave Simmons a sideways glance telling him she would have preferred him to stay quiet.
“I’ve received some intel on some possible threats, that’s all.”
“Type of threats, sir?” said Palmer.
“Oh, at this stage it’s really very general.” Melford leaned out of his room. “There’s been a spate of crimes against shops and businesses in the south-east and I’ve been warned we were in the firing line. But not yet it seems.”
“As far as I know,” said Palmer.
“Very good. But do keep me informed. As and when you hear anything, understood?” said Melford.
“Of course, sir,” said Palmer.
“But where’d the intel come from, sir?” said Simmons, earning himself another look from Palmer.
Melford paused and sighed. “Oh. Just the usual email circulars from police intelligence. Sometimes they hit the mark. But then again... as you see, even the best intel can be wrong.”
“That’s the trouble with intelligence, sir,” said Palmer, risking an opinion. “It’s not always intelligent.”
Melford struggled with the meaning of Palmer’s words and she tried not to blush under the man’s scrutiny. Unsure if he’d been the victim of a barbed comment, Melford decided to ignore her.
“Quite,” said Melford. “But we have to keep a look out, nonetheless. If we didn’t, they’d hold us to account.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll keep an eye out,” said Palmer.
“Let me know if you hear anything. Anything at all.” He stared at them as he spoke.
“Yes, sir,” they both replied. Melford’s dark eyes lingered on each of them before he withdrew and shut the door.
“Is he okay?” said Simmons, as they turned away. “He seems a little... out of sorts to me.”
“What answer do you want? The official one or the truth?”
“The truth,” said Simmons.
“He’s been acting a bit odd. And he’s looked extremely tired too, lately. And I mean worn out, have you noticed?” said Palmer. “Someone like him – he’s probably found out one of the other brass have leapfrogged him in the promotion stakes. Either that or he’s having a midlife crisis.”
“Or he can’t keep up with his missus,” said Simmons.
“What him?” said Palmer, incredulous. “Come on. What woman in her right mind would want to do anything like that with him? Besides, all those antique clocks in his office, watching you like the all-seeing eye. That was always a sure sign of a cracked pot if ever there was one...”
“Hey!” called a voice. “You gossiping about me again?” Thankfully, it was Hogarth. Palmer jumped as the DI swept past their backs giving them a mischievous raised eyebrow. Hogarth was sipping from a cup of vending machine coffee as he went.
The Secret Fear Page 2
