Mutilated: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate Book 2)

by Will Patching

Fiona realised too late that his movements since her arrival — the shifting upright, the planting of his feet in an open stance and the feigned yawn — were pure misdirection, carefully choreographed to disguise his preparations to flee.

  Unfortunately for them both, she had positioned herself between him and his escape route, the only door in or out of the room. Willie’s bony shoulder rammed into her lower chest and she felt the air whoosh from her lungs as her solar plexus sent a surge of pain to her brain, winding her. She should have expected it, knew he was a slippery bastard, but she had been complacent, overconfident, lulled into a false sense of superiority by the scent in the room and the knowledge of his marijuana habit.

  Fiona flew backwards and felt her spine slam against the door jamb. Another surge of agony slashed at her senses, but the pain brought her fully alert, with multiple thoughts crowding into her mind, the least useful being her regret at having told Lanny to take a break rather than accompany her.

  Willie was almost out the door, but Fiona was quick too, her muscles hardened from regular Thai boxing sessions, her body conditioned to accept physical punishment. She twisted towards him and simultaneously brought her knee in a spinning roundhouse before feeling the satisfying crunch of his thigh muscles as she landed a perfect blow just below his hip.

  He yelped and then squealed even louder as she followed up her first attack with a fist hooked to the side of his jaw just as his damaged leg collapsed under him and he started to go down. He hit the floor face first and was sprawled in the corridor, still, as if unconscious.

  Fiona, having been outwitted once, was taking no chances. Almost instinctively she aimed her knees either side of his spine and dropped her full weight on to his back. It was his turn to have air forced from his lungs, and he screamed this time. Then, as they both sucked in great lungfuls to recover, she hauled his wrists together and used her speedcuffs to secure them behind his back while he showered her with barely recognisable curses, some in English, others in a foreign tongue, along with threats about suing her for police brutality.

  Having secured the thieving git, she plucked her phone from her jacket pocket and called her colleague.

  ‘Lanny, are you still in the coffee shop? Get your arse in here now. The old storage units. Opposite the car park. Number fifteen. Bring the tablet with you.’

  ***

  ‘So, what have we got, Doc? Some African witchdoctor called Akachi puts the frighteners on an immigrant security guard, hands him several sealed letters to deliver to Harding who then has his replies smuggled out of Broadmoor. All taking place under Winston Diamond’s nose. Daniel Ngwene, suitably terrified, also agrees to rearrange the visiting times to allow Harding to attack another inmate as some sort of bonus benefit thrown in for free. Bloody idiot!’

  ‘Let’s not judge too harshly, Jack.’

  ‘Too harshly? For fuck’s sake, Doc, we’re talking about a corrupt guard aiding a deranged criminal to put a paedophile in a coma. I’m not sure who’s the worst out of the three of them!’

  ‘Harding. Without a doubt. He’ll have homed in on Ngwene, assessed the man’s weaknesses the moment the first illicit letter changed hands. After that he knew he could force the guard to break more rules or suffer the consequences.’

  ‘Blackmail?’

  ‘Yes. Harding was given two gifts thanks to this Akachi’s intervention. The content of the envelopes and a guard he could bully into helping him.’

  Winston had frogmarched Ngwene out of the office a few minutes before, leaving the detective and psychiatrist to assess the guard’s confession. The man’s career was over, and it was now down to Celene Brooks, the Broadmoor CEO, to decide whether to press charges too.

  ‘He almost got that paedo killed… Not that that’d be much of a loss to the world.’ Jack stood, yawned, stretched his arms over his head and interlaced his fingers, palms upwards, then cracked his knuckles before letting his hands fall to his side. ‘I’m getting old… Right, let me call HQ to see if they can track down this Akachi bloke.’ He patted his pockets, remembered his mobile phone had been confiscated on arrival, and grabbed the handset on Winston’s desk, muttering as he did so. ‘Now, how do I get a line out of here?’

  While Jack made his call, Doc reviewed the information they had gleaned. Despite pressing Daniel for more details about the shaman, all he could give them was a single name along with confirmation that there was now a powerful muti curse on him and his mother — his only other living family member — convincing the poor soul that both lives would be forfeit unless he did exactly as he was bid.

  Daniel’s eyes had bulged as he reluctantly shared the information with Doc and Jack, almost choking as he did so, his body giving off a rank odour of fear and sweat as he spoke. Doc felt sorry for him but not surprised. The power of superstition and its more acceptable cousin, religion, still held sway with most of the planet’s population. Both men were born in East Africa, both from the same tribe though separated by a border arbitrarily drawn between two countries created by the Europeans during the colonial era, so although they were theoretically foreigners, they had ties that bound them from centuries of genetic intermingling.

  Like distant cousins.

  Their common roots, language, customs and tribal beliefs transcended the veneer of western civilisation they both maintained here in the UK, but their beliefs went much deeper, imbued in their characters, an essential aspect of their individual identities. Daniel claimed to be a Catholic too, but his attendance at church was no barrier to an equally fervent belief in the dark magic of his home continent.

  Jack finished his call and flopped back in his chair beside Doc.

  ‘Akachi’s an unusual monicker, so even though we aren’t sure if it’s a first or last name, hopefully we can find this bloody magician. The muti thing… You still think it’s part of the bigger picture? Rawlings, Davies and the others? Feels more peripheral to me, Doc.’

  ‘Mmm. I think the whole thing is like an intricate jigsaw puzzle, and we’re just seeing pieces. The pieces the person behind all this wants us to see.’

  ‘These clever fuckers are never as smart as they think. We’ll get him, Doc… How about our old friend Harding? Shall we get him in now? You sure you’re up for this?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ He wasn’t, and could hear the doubt in his own voice despite trying to mask it.

  Jack stared at him for a moment.

  ‘I’ll take the lead on this one. You can observe, Doc. Okay?’

  Doc, struggling to quell the greasy sludge swirling in his guts, grimaced. He tried to be upbeat as he said, ‘The good news is that Celene and Maddox agreed. We can tell him, Jack.’

  ‘Excellent. That should send some sparks flying!’ Jack chuckled at the prospect and, as Diamond reappeared at the door, asked him, ‘Are we all set for number three on your list then, Winston?’

  ***

  ‘I brought you a coffee too, Sarge… Bloody hell! I thought you were joking about the Trotters. It really is like something out of Only Fools and Horses in here!’

  ‘Dem tings is nuttin to do wid me! Dis stuff ain’t mine. I was sleepin here, is all.’

  Willie was sitting on the floor by the doorway, hands still cuffed behind his back, his feet bound together with plastic ties. Fiona was taking no chances on him doing a runner again, though she was now sitting in the hammock using her toes to push herself back and forth. Her chest and back ached from Willie’s unexpected tussle so she was not in a forgiving mood.

  ‘Yeah, right. Except, when we get forensics to check your little treasure trove, I’m pretty damn sure we’ll find your prints on a load of moody goods. Thanks Lanny.’ Fiona took the coffee and necked a large gulpful. ‘Meanwhile, my colleague is going to take some video evidence of this haul, and once we’ve checked the reports of thefts in the area, I reckon these items are going tell a sorry tale, Willie. What do you think?’

  ‘I tink I need another toke of dat doobie.’ He looked longingly at the half fin
ished joint lying on the floor where he had dropped it during his bid for freedom.

  ‘Yeah. Drugs. That’s another problem.’ Fiona, having pulled on her gloves, hoisted the bag of weed in one hand and the slab of hash in the other. The total weight was about half a kilo and she’d found both items tucked in a box beneath the hammock. Willie the idiot obviously had no idea the location of his secret Aladdin’s Cave had been residing in the depths of her memory for so many years, and he had got sloppy with the passage of time, leaving the door unlocked while he puffed his joint. She’d surprised herself with the recollection — Willie’s existence had not featured in her thoughts for almost two decades. He used to live here when she first met him, but he’d presumably moved up in the world based on the address Sam had given her, and now used this space as a stock room. ‘Dealing too. You’re in some really deep shit this time, my friend. If you answer some questions for me, I might be able to make some of your legal problems go away.’

  Lanny started, her mouth open in shock, and almost dropped the tablet on hearing her sergeant’s words. Fiona winked at her as Willie inspected his feet, obviously considering her offer of a deal.

  ‘What you want den?’ A sly note in his voice warned her he would lie without hesitation if he thought he could get away with it. ‘I know loads of young ‘uns who do nicking stuff.’

  Yeah, kids with fuck all, just like I was, but who don’t have parents who know better.

  ‘I’m not interested in kids. Tell me where you got the Atlas bone pendant.’

  ‘Why you care? Dat’s legal. Possessing yooman remains ain’t no crime in da UK.’

  That depends, sunshine.

  ‘Just answer me. I know you didn’t get it in Africa, so don’t give me that bullshit. You may have fooled my colleagues but it won’t wash with me. Just assume I’m already aware of a lot more than you think, and I’ll know if you’re lying… If I hear one wrong word from you, DC Jewell here will be calling out a forensic team. Now, tell me, where did you get the bone?’

  It was only a hunch, but she spoke with more conviction than she felt.

  ‘I bought it. In da market.’

  ‘Bullshit. I’ll give you one more chance. You help me, and I’ll help you. So, let’s try again.’

  ‘You gonna fuck me, innit? How I know you help me like you say?’

  ‘Okay, forget it. Lanny. Call the SOCOs —’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait! Just dis one ting, huh? I give you dis, you let me go?’

  Fiona smiled, then said, ‘I’ll personally drop charges, but I want the full story. Deal?’

  ‘Okay. I get from a guy for some gear he wuz wantin. He work in a dead man’s place. Ya know?’

  Dead man’s place?

  ‘A mortuary? Funeral parlour?’

  Stealing bones?

  ‘Like dat, but where dey burn da bodies.’

  ‘Crematorium?’

  ‘Yeah. Dat’s all I know.’

  ‘He does have a name though, Willie.’

  ‘Yeah. Da Hand o’ God.’

  ‘The Hand of God? Seriously?’

  ‘I swear, dat’s his name.’

  ‘And where can I find this Hand of God?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘You’re lying again. Lanny, I’ve had enough of this scrote —’

  ‘Woah! I know where he wuz workin den, but not now. It’s a long-long time ago. Twenny two years, I fink.’

  ‘Tell me where he was working when he gave you the bone.’

  He hung his head, switching it from side to side, his indecision visible, as if he was having an inner debate to decide whether the demon copper was a better bet than relying on the lucky charm that had failed to protect him today. The one that had failed the night he was nicked all those years ago too…

  Fiona was losing patience and scowled as she rubbed her ribcage where his shoulder had rammed her, thinking he’d better make up his mind pretty damned smartish.

  He did.

  ‘Streatham, where dey burn da dead.’

  ‘Lanny, outside for a minute.’

  They left Willie alone in the storeroom and once out of earshot Fiona spoke. The stress on Lanny’s face dissolved as she digested her sergeant’s words.

  ‘Make the call to the SOCOs, then nick him for possession of stolen goods for now. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find some class A narcotics in there too.’

  ‘Brilliant! I couldn’t believe it when you said you were going to let him off, Sarge.’

  ‘No chance. See if you can find the bone pendant in there. He’s not wearing it, I checked, and he says he doesn’t have it any more. I don’t believe him. He’s a pathological liar, a fucking piece of excrement who deserves to be banged up.’

  ‘You think it’s from that little boy, Adam? The lad in the Thames?’

  ‘Not if he really has had it as long as he says.’ Although Fiona was dismissive, she still had a tantalising suspicion that there might be some link between Willie’s Atlas bone, young Adam and Patrick Rawlings. But what?

  ‘Is it true what he said though? Possessing human remains isn’t illegal?’

  ‘The Human Tissue Act of 2004 is silent on the subject, Lanny.’ Fiona had checked immediately after the morning’s briefing, so was fully cognisant of the legal aspects and keen to share her new found knowledge with her assistant. ‘Medics use human skeletons for their studies. Others, collectors and the like, buy human remains on the internet. People were selling skulls, skeletons and bones on eBay until a few years ago, before some tabloid newspaper complained and brought the trade to a halt.’

  ‘I had no idea it was even legal.’

  ‘The law doesn’t allow the sale of organs for transplant, but ownership of that Atlas bone doesn’t automatically mean Willie’s committed an offence, which was why he was only charged with breaking and entering last time he was nicked. That was despite having been caught in the act with a human vertebra dangling from a gold chain round his scrawny neck — not much of a lucky charm though, was it? Mind you, if it transpires the bone was taken from a dead body without permission, well that’s an entirely different matter. We need to find it to check the DNA for a match with any previous murder victims or Mispers too. You never know. It might not have come from the crematorium at all.’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose.’ Lanny was not convinced but Fiona felt upbeat about her day.

  ‘You crack on — he’s your collar, okay? Then he can’t complain about some deal his arresting officer promised him before he was cautioned. Tell him he’s lucky I’m not charging him with assaulting a police officer, and that’s the best result he can expect.’

  ‘Sounds fair enough, Sarge.’

  ‘I’m going to finish my coffee while I call Sam, see if he can track down a home address for this bloke who sold body parts while working at Streatham Crematorium, and I’ll also find out if he’s confirmed the Butler ID from the photos we sent him.’

  ***

  ‘Well, fuck me! If it ain’t the bastard copper wot nicked me all those years ago.’ Harding received a shove from Winston as he pulled up short at the office doorway, stopped in his tracks by the sight of the detective. Then his feral eyes swivelled and found Doc, no longer seated by Carver, instead perched on Winston’s desk off to the side. ‘Whassup Powers? Having Winnie the Pooh as your muscle not good enough for yer? You brought some police protection wiv yer this time too! Hahaha!’

  Another shove from Winston and Harding stumbled, then recovered, throwing a threatening glance back at the big man, as if he could somehow harm him, here, inside this place.

  ‘Alright, alright Winnie. No need to get all violent on me.’

  ‘Sit down, Harding.’

  It had been a long time since Jack had seen the criminal, and he noted to himself how little the ugly bastard had changed. Aged, for sure, but still the same sly, ratty look about him and that persistent air of superiority despite his circumstances.

  Harding sat in the one chair placed opposite, clearly sizing up th
e detective, as if he could read his mind.

  As if he knew why Carver was here.

  ‘So, still a lowly Detective Inspector then? Pretty crap at this stage in your career, Carver. Not quite as sharp as you thought you were, are ya?’ He giggled to himself, threw a look at Doc that screamed Fuck you both! then said, ‘Maybe you think I can give you a leg up the career ladder. Is that why you’re here?’

  Jack contemplated that one, noting how Harding had some insights that he shouldn’t have after so many years locked up in here. Either that or it was just a lucky swipe by the inmate, the usual cocky banter, but Jack would play the game, hoping to lull him into exposing something unwittingly.

  ‘Your pals in here have been helping us with our enquiries, Harding. You’re in deep shit.’

  ‘Piss off. I ain’t got no pals in here and I can’t get in much deeper shit than this, can I? Take a look around you, Detective. In case you hadn’t noticed, this is Broadmoor!’

  ‘Some of us would say you got off lightly, that this place is a soft option. That you should be in a cell, not a hospital room. In fact, Doctor Powers has something to tell you regarding your status here.’

  ‘Really? I’m all ears, Powers.’

  ‘Your psychiatric evaluation has been updated. As a result, you’re being transferred. To Belmarsh, where you belong.’

  ‘Bullshit! Maddox said I’m staying right here until he approves me for release.’ Harding’s confidence crumbled as he tried to assess the faces of the two men, searching for the lie, then turned in his seat to eye Winston. ‘I ain’t going nowhere. Tell ’em.’

  Winston shrugged, his voice steel as he said, ‘Professor Maddox has already approved the transfer, and Ms Brooks has asked the Home office to expedite the move for next week. You’re deemed untreatable thanks to your latest escapade.’

  Harding, initially shocked and confused, then seemed to recover as he said, ‘Next week?’ He turned back to Jack, carelessly, as if he was being fed a line. ‘You’re just full of shit!’

  Doc shifted from his perch and slid into the seat beside Jack as he confirmed the news. ‘I can show you the written authorisation. You’re not suffering from PTSD or anything else, just like I always said. And Dickie Maddox agrees with me. You’re just a nasty little psychopath with delusions of grandeur.’