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

by Will Patching

  ‘Of course I do!’

  ‘Right, let’s get on with nailing down our prime suspects then.’

  ‘Boss! The Acting Super’s waiting.’ DC Ahmed dropped her phone to its cradle as she called to Carver across the room.

  ‘Dammit. Doc, you have another go with Sharon Tait. Tell her the bad news about her boyfriend’s drug abuse and his split personality. Get her to think he’s already spilling his guts about what they’ve been up to, and see if you can get her to talk. I don’t buy this vegan bullshit. It’s a cover… Now, I need to update Soundbite, but I’ll join you as soon as I can.’

  ***

  The Art of Africa Import Company premises seemed strangely out of place situated in an old mill house on the southern edge of Mitcham Common, just a stone’s throw from the golf course. The old windmill had long gone, but the two storey granary that remained was imposing, with a gravel drive and manicured gardens that reminded Fiona of the stately homes she had occasionally visited as a kid. The idea that an African importer was now doing business from a place like this seemed incongruous to her as she drove up to the building.

  There’s obviously a lot of money to made in African art, she decided, as she estimated that the property would be worth several million in this peaceful semi-rural setting within easy commuting distance of London.

  The brass plaque at the gate had informed her she was in the right place, as did her satnav, so she hoped the lack of a vehicle parked at the front of the house was not an ominous sign. She had her fingers crossed that her suspect was here, working from his home office. She was not disappointed.

  The gloss black door swung open in response to her thumb squashing the doorbell for several seconds, and a handsome gentleman she estimated to be in his mid-forties smiled down at her, welcoming, his dark chocolate eyes crinkling at the sight of her.

  If Fiona was expecting someone dressed in traditional African garb, she would have been disappointed. His beautifully tailored suit and white shirt gave him an image more suited to a banker or a lawyer, as did his accent. In truth, she had no idea what to expect — the only information from Sam had been the name and address — so the man’s appearance and attitude threw her. He seemed almost regal, and unsurprised at her appearance at his door, as if he’d been expecting her. Tall and broad, in great shape, with a handsome face. His voice was low, sexy, rich and seductive.

  Bloody hell, woman. Get a grip!

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’ Fiona’s warrant card made a swift appearance, then slid back into her jacket pocket as she spoke. ‘Detective Sergeant Fielding. I’m hoping you can help me. Would you be Arthur Abimbola?’

  ‘Detective? Well, that’s a surprise. Please come on in. I was in the middle of a phone call when the doorbell interrupted me. We don’t get many visitors except by appointment. Please give me a moment to finish the call. Make yourself at home in the showroom to the left.’

  Before she could speak again, the man turned and disappeared out of sight into a room to the right, and resumed his conversation in a language she did not recognise, the words muffled through the closed door. Having been invited in, Fiona wandered through to the showroom, though it reminded her of a museum rather than a business run from someone’s home.

  The room extended the full length of the building, maybe twelve metres, and was about half that wide, the entire space packed with African artefacts. The walls were decorated with various weapons from the dark continent, including spears, blowpipes, wicked looking wooden clubs, and shields made from zebra hide. There were mounted animal heads and numerous traditional hardwood carvings too and dozens of glass cases were dotted around the place. Some were on pedestals containing ornate jewellery, others with intricately designed masks, both beautiful and disturbing. One long display case held decorative bone necklaces, lip and ear plates she guessed were made from clay before being painted with vivid colours.

  One illuminated display cabinet in the corner seemed out of place to Fiona. A strange skull, lit up with an eerie yellow green tint, seemed to grin at her, the contrast of light and shadow giving the illusion of movement as she walked around it. The hairs on her forearms were at attention, the sight disturbing her in a similar fashion to her discovery of the ears secreted beneath Gerald Butler’s bedroom floorboards, although this seemed barely human, the weird conical shape perhaps the result of a disease.

  Fiona, despite being fascinated by the vast collection, began to wonder if she was wasting her time as she bent at the waist to get a better view of the distorted head.

  ‘Sorry about that, Detective. All done. I see you like my elongated head display. A most unusual artefact.’

  ‘Is it real?’ Fiona had never seen anything like it.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What caused it? Encephalitis?’

  ‘No, not disease. It’s traditional in certain cultures. The baby’s head is kept bound during the first six months or so, with wooden braces held in place to create the desired shape. Young skulls are soft and pliable, relatively easy to mould as they grow. This technique has been practised for millennia and examples can be found across the continents. The one you find so fascinating is from Egypt and is over two thousand years old.’

  ‘But why do this? Surely the baby must suffer.’

  ‘Ideas of beauty change over time, and with location too. Humans have always had the desire to modify themselves, to make their appearance special. You pluck your eyebrows, no doubt shave your legs, armpits and so on. Modern society dictates you do this, an aesthetic imperative. Your ancestors and mine would probably have decorated their skin with carefully carved, patterned scarring. Pain in the pursuit of beauty is nothing knew. Had we been born in Chad a century ago, our heads might look this too.’

  Fiona straightened, mildly disgusted by her own morbid curiosity as she considered the provenance of this collector’s item, once a warm blooded person’s head, now reduced to a conversation piece for a buyer with more money than sense.

  ‘I guess a client would pay a lot for something like this, Mister Abimbola… You are Arthur Abimbola, correct?’

  ‘So sorry, Detective. Yes, I thought I’d made that clear when I invited you in. This item is not for sale. It’s priceless and very precious to me personally. Let’s sit, and you can tell me why you are here.’ He waved an imperial hand towards the room he had just appeared from and she followed him as he led the way.

  A grey leather suite with enormous cushions almost absorbed Fiona entirely as she sat, then she pulled herself forward to better view the man. His eyes twinkled at her, amused, not at all threatened by her presence. In this light she could see his tight curled hair was greying well beyond the temples, so perhaps her earlier estimate of his age might be wide of the mark.

  Maybe mid-fifties?

  Like a well matured Idris Elba…

  ‘You used to work at Streatham Crematorium. Correct?’

  ‘Well, yes, but that’s ancient history, Detective. I left there about seventeen or eighteen years ago. I doubt I can help you with anything relating to their current operations.’

  Abimbola’s air of amusement started to rankle, although Fiona knew she was on something of a fishing expedition so shouldn’t have been surprised. A more direct approach might shake him, she decided.

  ‘You also sold human remains at the time.’ Still no reaction, just that confident smile, a man secure in the knowledge he had done nothing illegal. ‘An Atlas bone.’

  ‘Ah! In all my years in this business I have sold just three. While working at Streatham my import business was in its infancy, a part time hobby that later grew into what you now see here. I did indeed sell one such item all those years ago. The Atlas vertebrae is a rare artefact, so I remember that sale well despite the intervening years.’ Then he chuckled, his head thrown back as he realised what was on her mind. ‘You think I stole the bone from a body prior to cremation. Oh dear, do forgive me for finding that rather amusing! It was imported, Detective.’ He continued laughing a
t her, prompting a stony faced request in response.

  ‘You can prove that, can you, Mister Abimbola?’

  ‘Of course.’ The outburst of humour had subsided at her serious tone, but his mouth twitched with amusement as he spoke. ‘I’m sure I still have the paperwork relating to its provenance. Somewhere.’

  If Abimbola had records confirming the purchase and import of the bone then she’d definitely had a wasted journey. Fiona sighed inwardly at the prospect.

  ‘May I see? I know it’s a long time ago, but even so —’

  ‘No problem. In my business, record keeping is essential. I like to ensure each item I purchase and then sell is within moral and legal bounds. I have documentation for every sale I have ever made. Please give me a moment, my archives are in the back room.’ He stood with a lithe athlete’s grace, as he added, ‘I shouldn’t be long, Detective.’

  ‘One more thing.’ Abimbola turned at the door as Fiona threw a question that should’ve occurred to her sooner. ‘Are you a shaman?’

  ‘A shaman? Hahaha!’ He spread his arms, palms open and laughed at her question as he answered. ‘Do I look like a witchdoctor to you?’

  It certainly seemed a ridiculous accusation for this clearly wealthy, urbane gentleman, living in a magnificent country house, running a legitimate business importing items from Africa and beyond.

  ‘My informant tells me you called yourself the Hand of God. Is that true?’

  Another sprinkling of laughter peppered his words as he replied. ‘I’m a businessman. Of course, I have, on occasion, suggested to some of my more feeble-minded clients that the items I sell possess mystical powers. In my early years in this business many of my sales were to, how shall we say, rather backward tribespeople, making their homes here in an unfamiliar country. Some called me God’s Hand, others the Hand of God, and of course, I allowed the myths to spread. Think of it as theatre if you must, but no, I am not invested with magical powers.’

  With that, he disappeared, leaving Fiona alone in the study. Despite her conclusion that this was a wasted journey, she decided to have a sniff around anyway. A large desk dominated the room, though its surface was clear of any papers, just a blotter, some ornaments and a telephone. The drawers were locked, so Fiona focused instead on the wall behind the chair.

  Dozens of framed documents were displayed, and even at first glance, Fiona realised they were all from satisfied clients, suppliers and dealers who had sent letters of commendation to the company. It was impressive, but as she turned away to find something more interesting, one word jumped out at her just as her eyes finished scanning the pages.

  In that moment, Fiona felt a surge of panic, finally realising she may have unwittingly put herself in harm’s way. Doc’s warning from just two nights before, not to tackle any suspects alone, but always with a colleague, had seemed irrelevant to her enquiries into the Atlas bone, especially with Harry Butler in custody. Now, she fumbled with her mobile phone, wanted to call for back up and get herself out of here without Abimbola suspecting she had made the connection.

  She was too late.

  ***

  ‘Where the hell’s Fifi, Sam? I thought she’d be back by now.’

  Jack had returned from briefing Soundbite Dawson on the day’s results, including the latest damning evidence, and was on a high as a result. They had spoken after Doc’s latest interview with Sharon Tait, but his old friend had been unable to work his magic on the suspect and get her to confess. That would’ve been the final nail in their coffin, Jack thought, but Doc was increasingly adamant the whole gamut of evidence they were compiling was some elaborate frame up.

  Harry Butler was now their major suspect for the Diana Davies murder too — traces of his DNA were found in the semen taken from her mutilated corpse, discovered in a ditch over ten years before, and although not conclusive, the human hand hidden in the freezer was plenty damning enough. The hand belonged to the female victim identified by Harding, Selena Scott, the planning officer who had gone missing seven years ago.

  Doc was in the kitchen making himself a coffee, having given up with Sharon Tait. Apparently, the freaky girl had no further comment since Doc had shared with her their most recent discovery… Her failed career as a nurse, a fact she had chosen not to divulge.

  It all fitted. They just had to get a confession, or find more evidence relating to the other crimes.

  Jack wondered if Doc’s mental state had led him to ignore what was obvious, the evidence right in front of them. Perhaps his concerns over Judy were warping his professional viewpoint, and his theory about Butler being framed was a result.

  But Jack knew better than to ignore Doc’s suspicions, so was now focused on another lead — a folder that had been left on his desk this morning, one that contained a newly compiled computer generated photo-montage of Akachi. The man who Daniel Ngwene, the corrupt Broadmoor guard, claimed had used muti magic and threats of imminent death to coerce him into smuggling sealed envelopes to and from Harding. Although Jack had not admitted it to Doc, this was the piece of the puzzle the detective found most baffling, but he knew it was only a matter of time before Harry Butler’s links to the shaman were revealed.

  In fact, Jack was mightily pleased with himself, and with Fiona who also deserved a pat on the back.

  But where is she?

  He aimed the question at Sam Sharpe, the DS who always seemed to know what she was up to.

  ‘She was following up on that Atlas bone lead she got from that bloke she nicked with Lanny yesterday. Fi’s been a bit obsessed since finding those ears in Butler’s gaff. It must’ve been over an hour ago when I texted her the address she wanted. She said she’d head to his place in Mitcham this afternoon.’

  ‘What the bloody hell for? Get her here now, Sam.’

  ‘I can’t, sir. Her phone’s dead and her car radio’s not responding.’

  Sulking?

  But Jack knew DS Fiona Fielding better than that. No matter how pissed off she was with him for being left to babysit the SOCOs, he knew she would never knowingly put herself out of comms reach while on duty.

  ‘Mobile battery’s dead, maybe…’ That was wrong, and Jack realised as he said it. She had charged it overnight, and Jack had seen her unplug the fully charged device earlier, not long after they arrived in preparation for the dawn raid on the tattoo parlour. ‘So she went off to meet this bloke? Where is this place, then?’

  Despite Jack’s good humour at their results today, his gut was telling him there was something badly amiss. He listened as Sam explained, his unease spiralling. Jack’s fingers, working independently of his conscious mind, opened the folder, his eyes drawn to the image of the alleged shaman. Every molecule in his body was telling him there was something desperately wrong, that this Akachi was somehow a threat, that the man had some link to what Fiona was doing right now.

  It wasn’t magic that was making him feel this way, but years of experience.

  ‘She went alone? For fuck’s sake, Sarge!’

  ‘Sorry, Boss. She said it was no big deal, that the Hand of God was unrelated to this case. Just something she had to do. A hunch —’

  ‘Get me everything you have on this Hand of God bloke. Now, Sam!’

  It was like an itch in his brain, one he had to scratch.

  And who the fuck is this guy, Akachi?

  He stared at Daniel Ngwene’s photo-montage of the shaman, the composite image shaking as his hands trembled.

  Finding Fifi was now at the top of DI Jack Carver’s agenda.

  ***

  Fiona, mobile phone in hand, turned as Abimbola re-entered the room, and saw his eyes registering the shock on her face, her fear, just for a moment. He stiffened, then recovered, back to his jovial, superior self.

  ‘Oh dear, Detective. Your mobile phone won’t work in here. I’m afraid this old building is rather like a Faraday cage, and signals neither enter nor leave. By all means, feel free to use my desk telephone. Or perhaps you would prefer to use
your car radio.’ He held out an envelope for her, his feet stationary, waiting by the doorway. ‘I have the paperwork you requested.’

  The desk was between them, and Fiona was not sure what to do. She could bluff, pretend she had not made her most recent discovery and head for the car, then call the cavalry. Or she could front it with him now, use the landline to call for help, and fend him off with her martial arts skills while waiting for backup to arrive. Maybe she could do enough damage to him, disable him, before he had a chance to overpower her, but he was a towering presence, and she had no idea if he too had some fighting skills.

  With Doc’s warning ringing in her brain, discretion seemed the least risky course of action.

  ‘Thank you Mister Abimbola. If I may take that receipt, I’ll be getting on my way. I hadn’t realised the time.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The door was open, all she had to do was walk through it, remain calm and collected, just get to her car and make that call. The envelope felt hot to her touch as she took it from him, then she slipped past into the hall, holding her breath subconsciously, her eyes on him at all times, her body tense and ready to repel an attack.

  The smile was back in place, but it seemed supercilious to her now, not in the least charming. Abimbola was calm, unhurried, unperturbed. Fiona let out her breath as she reached for the front door latch.

  Almost outside now.

  Her fingers, slick with nervous sweat, slipped against the metal lock as she scrabbled to open the door, her attention still on the man she now considered a major threat.

  Finally, the door swung open and a rush of air gave her a taste of freedom, the safety of the car just a dozen steps away. Without relaxing her guard she scrunched her way across the gravel, the keys in her hand, the lights flashing as she pressed the remote.

  Nearly there.

  Abimbola let the front door close behind him as he stood just outside, fiddling with an oversized cigar. Or, at least, that’s what Fiona thought it was. He waved a friendly hand at her, then started to stroll towards her car, as if seeing her off, then placed the cigar in his mouth.