by Liz Mistry
Shaking his head, he barged past her, hand over his mouth. He pushed open the front door, jumped the steps and fell to his knees on the crazy paving. Before she could reach him, he’d leaned over and puked into the flower beds.
‘Christ, James! You’re scaring me! What’s wrong?’
He pulled out a Kleenex from his pocket, and wiped his mouth, pulled out his phone and dialled.
‘Who are you calling? Are you phoning Simon?’ Jane grabbed his arm and shook it hard.
James sighed. ‘No, not Simon… the police.’
Before Jane could ask more, Simon turned and, his voice hoarse, spoke into his phone, ‘I need to report a murder…’
5
22:15 Cottingley Ridge
Getting out of his car, Gus took a brief moment to admire the sprinkle of lights that spread out like an ocean before him. It reminded him of the view he and Mo had shared at Robin Hood’s Bay a few days ago. He and Gabriella used to spend time in his car, just watching the lights, chatting and snogging before they were married. Things had been simple then. Now he was visiting a crime scene not a stone’s throw from here.
This little pocket of ‘poshness’ on a hill just outside Cottingley was in sharp contrast to many of the places he visited in Bradford. On the outskirts of the inner city, Cottingley Ridge was an anomaly of wealth against a backdrop of poverty and food banks. It was one of Bradford’s more affluent areas and was the size of a postage stamp compared to some of the rougher estates that seemed to stretch for miles. As he entered the cul-de-sac, it was clear which of the eight detached houses was his crime scene. The area was alive with police, crime scene investigators and all the other houses had groups of observers hanging about in their drives, despite the chill nip in the air. The houses were well spaced out, each with a sizeable lawn to the front. The entrance to the street was almost hidden from the main road by a line of trees. They’d be in the highest council tax bracket. The houses were newish and had none of Bradford’s characteristic yellow sandstone. According to his Google search, each house had four double bedrooms, all with ensuites, and two rooms as well as a kitchen downstairs.
Alice waved and Gus walked over to join her. ‘What’s the story so far?’
With her hands thrust into the pockets of a black full-length coat that seemed to weigh down her petite shoulders, Alice looked almost too fragile to be a police officer. However, her dark brown eyes, darkened by a thick kohl outline and heavy mascara, glinted with resolve. Pausing, she kicked at a loose stone. ‘Looks to me like a house party gone tragically wrong. No sign of the sixteen-year-old son, Simon Proctor, who was left in charge for the weekend. First impressions show that the house is pretty much trashed; lots of empty alcohol bottles and cans, stinks like a mixture of a working men’s pub prior to the smoking ban and a dope-head’s bedroom on a bad day.’
She paused and stared straight at Gus. ‘Then, of course there’s the body. Young white girl, maybe sixteen years old or so. No ID yet. Upstairs front bedroom. The parents’ room. Crime scene techs are in there now and we’re waiting for the pathologist.’ She took her hands from her pockets long enough to rub her cold nose. ‘Uniforms started door-to-doors, cordon’s established and I’d like to extend it to the entrance and the property boundary at the back.’
‘Get that sorted and find out what the uniforms have got so far.’
A young PC he’d seen in passing at The Fort, walked over and stood beside him as he glanced around. With a grim smile, he noticed that the neighbours were being cooperative. Despite the lateness of the hour, they were distributing mugs of hot drinks and welcoming the interviewing officers into their homes.
‘The middle class are being awfully British tonight, don’t you think?’
Gus glanced at the officer, surprised by the bitterness in her tone. ‘You don’t think it’s genuine?’
She shrugged. ‘I wonder why none of them saw the need to contact us on Saturday. House parties, especially those that get out of hand, are usually loud.’
As she spoke, Gus studied her. She had her hair pulled back into a severe pony tail and looked to be in her early twenties. Her lips were tight and a frown pulled her sculpted brows together. He wondered at her attitude. ‘Were you the first responder?’
‘Yes sir, PC Iqrah Ali. I set up the initial cordon.’
‘I see what you mean about the neighbours. In my experience, folk keep to themselves until their involvement’s necessary… then they get out their tea pots and round up the troops. Too little too late, huh?’ Gus didn’t agree with the sentiment, nonetheless he was interested to hear what the officer had picked up on. Maybe she’d sensed or heard something ‘off’. Often the first responders were at an advantage as they got the raw initial reactions, whereas he and his team arrived later when everyone had had a chance to ‘adjust’.
‘Yeah, pisses me off a bit. Surely they saw or heard something last night.’ She rammed her hands into her pockets and shrugged. ‘Oh, just ignore me. I’m never happy. If we were on Canterbury Estate, I’d be moaning at the racist abuse I’d be getting. It’s just you somehow expect better from the educated middle classes.’ She shrugged. ‘A cup of tea will be nice, though.’
Alice returned with a mug of coffee for Gus and they watched Iqrah strutting off, her shoulders rigid. ‘What’s up with her?’
Gus stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘She’s a bit pissed off at the tardiness of their middle-class solicitude.’
‘What? Oh, I get it. You mean she wonders which hole their heads were buried in on Saturday night when their neighbour’s house was being ransacked?’
Gus took a slurp of coffee welcoming it warming his throat on its way down. ‘I must admit it’ll be interesting to find out. Nice area like this, you’d expect a few calls, wouldn’t you?’
‘Maybe a case of just keeping themselves to themselves. Happened all the time when I was in London. Nobody was interested in their neighbours. Nobody wanted to get involved.’
Gus started to walk towards the house. ‘Maybe she’s right, maybe if they’d been a bit more neighbourly, a bit less up their own arses and reported the party, we wouldn’t have a dead body and a missing teenager on our hands.’
‘Er… well, hate to be the bearer of bad news… it’s not a dead body. It’s two dead bodies. They’ve just found another one in the living room – another girl. They were concentrating on the upstairs and have only just sent a crime scene team downstairs.’
‘Fuck’s sake, Al. What the hell’s going on here, with the Stepford Wives on the one hand and house parties and dead bodies on the other?’ He thrust his empty coffee cup at a passing PC and raked his fingers through his dreads. ‘Let’s see the crime scenes and then I want to see the parents. The dad phoned it in, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, I got onto family liaison as soon as I’d done a brief initial statement with them. When the FLO arrived, I got her to accompany them to a Mrs Owen’s at number twenty-three. It wasn’t healthy for them to stay at the scene. He’d already vomited on the azaleas, she’d stomped all over the montbretia. I was concerned about the fate of the dwarf pines and rose bushes if they’d stayed any longer.’
Gus laughed, appreciating her effort to lighten the mood. ‘Very green-fingered of you, I’m sure.’
Together, they walked into the canvas porch. With its whiteness accentuated by the harsh spotlights it stood in front of the front door and stretched out to cover most of the front lawn and pathway, hiding some of the comings and goings from nosy onlookers. Gus thanked the officer who handed them crime suits and bootees. With the speed of one experienced in struggling into the cumbersome garments, Gus covered up before entering the tent with Alice. ‘You did good work securing the scene, Al. Now all we need is the bloody pathologist. Where the hell is he and please tell me it’s not–’
Before he’d finished his sentence, a huge hand with stubby fat fingers gripped the loose canvas doorway, pulling it to the side to admit a large turnip head adorned with a veritable
brush of eyebrows above gregarious eyes and a bulbous nose.
‘Yoohoo, all! I’m here.’ Doctor McGuire tilted his head towards his son. ‘Hope that wisnae you taking mah name in vain again, Angus?’
Gus closed his eyes and turned away from his father silently mouthing, ‘Fuck!’
‘I dinnae see why you’re moaning, I’ve been interrupted from mah dance class, yet again.’
Gus groaned. Oh, no, please say we’re not getting a repeat performance of the damn kilt scenario. Gus was still being ribbed about that even now and that incident had been nearly a year since.
A foot in a shiny patent shoe poked through the tent opening and Gus was relieved to see that the leg that accompanied the shoe was clothed. Tutting, he moved towards the door, ignoring Alice’s, ‘Aw, no kilt tonight, Doc?’
‘Hmph, no, Alice, mah dear. Some mardy-bum takes objection to traditional dress. Sure, I could have him done for that.’
6
22:30 Heaton
Matty couldn’t settle. Every time his phone vibrated he jumped. This was crap. He’d had enough, so he grabbed his phone and dialled. ‘Jake, that you? What the fuck’s going on, bro? Simon’s mum’s been phoning me. What are we gonna do?’
‘Fuck’s sake, Matty, stop whimpering. She’s been phoning me, too. Did you answer?’
‘Nah, course I bloody didn’t.’
‘Good, good, neither did I. She left a message on the answer phone to call them. I deleted it.’
‘Aw fuck, Jake, where is he?’
‘Fucked if I know, but we better prepare for the police coming to see us.’
‘Aw shit! My dad’ll have a heart attack.’
‘Yeah well, I’m more worried about Simon’s state of health than your old man’s. Just keep me informed; and Matty…’
‘Yeah?’
‘We can’t tell them the truth. This is some really serious shit and we’re in the middle, so we can’t come clean in case we get blamed for that girl.’
‘Aw fuck, we won’t, will we?’ Matty rubbed the length of his sleeve across his face.
‘Not if we keep quiet.’
7
22:30 Manningham
Shamila’s phone vibrated by her leg as she lay flat on her tummy on her bed, arms bent and hands propping up her face. She tried to concentrate on her homework. She’d been glad to let her hair down after having it up all day and with the beginnings of a headache building, she’d thrown her scarf on the end of her bed.
‘Shamila, it’s me. I’ve seen Tayyub’s stuff. He’s done a really good job.’
Shamila, with a quick glance towards her closed bedroom door, sat up and dropped the physics text book. She swung her legs round and sat cross-legged, pushing her long black hair back from her face as she moved the phone to her other ear. Her heart beat fast, yet she kept her voice low. Her mum didn’t like her speaking to boys at the best of times, although she had it in for Tariq in particular. Who knew why? ‘Oh, wow! That’s brill, Tariq, have you told the others?’
‘Just about to. Can you meet at the mosque tomorrow night? The meeting room’s free at six.’
‘Yeah sure, can’t wait. This is The Young Jihadists best plan yet.’
When she hung up, Shamila wrapped her arms round herself and rocked for a minute, her brain buzzing as she started to prepare in her mind what she would say to the committee the next evening.
8
22:40 Cottingley Ridge
Gus and Alice entered the hallway, which was a hive of worker bees in crime scene suits, busy photographing, gathering and sifting through evidence, whilst sharing a raw humour that would seem out of place, perhaps even insulting, to the lay person.
Gus stood by the door, gloved hands clasped behind his back, taking in his surroundings. ‘Fuck’s sake! How many teenagers does it take to make a shithole like this?’
Alice glanced at him. ‘Is that a joke, Gus?’
‘Eh?’
‘You know, along the lines of “How many detectives does it take to change a lightbulb?”’
‘You’re bloody warped, Al, mentally deranged.’ And he stepped inside, Alice tagging behind. Surveying the scene, his covered foot nudged a broken picture frame and flipped it over. Family photo? ‘By the way, how many elephants do fit in a Mini?’
‘Duh? How am I supposed to know, I’m mentally deranged after all!’
Gus grinned at her. ‘Ha, bloody, ha!’ Then, feeling the stickiness of spilled beer on the carpet under his feet, he grimaced. ‘Glad I’ve not got kids, if this is the shit they get up to.’
An androgynous figure in white approached, sounding like a blocked Jacuzzi behind the mask. ‘Hi, Gus, Alice. Glad it’s you two I’m dealing with and not your effing boss. Last time she took off her damn mask to sneeze, took her hood down to scratch her head and forgot to wear gloves. Stupid cow, contaminated the entire effing crime scene.’
Gus was all too aware of his boss, DCI Nancy Chalmers’ propensity to cock up a crime scene. That was why, on the rare occasions she expressed a desire to accompany them, Gus tended to divert her elsewhere. He raised his hand in acknowledgement. ‘Hi Suse, got a cold again? We’re too bloody scared of you to mess up a crime scene. Anything for me yet?’
‘Two bodies not enough for you, Gus? Greedy bastard.’
Gus grinned behind his mask. Suse was Hissing Sid’s sidekick and Gus liked her down-to-earth manner. ‘Well, it was more clues than bodies I was after.’
Suse snorted. ‘Humph! You’ll be lucky to get any before the end of next century. The place is a cesspit of DNA. God knows what’s relevant. Just sent your dad upstairs with Hissing Sid and body number one. Number two’s in there, behind the couch.’ Sniffing, she inclined her head towards the living room. ‘Why don’t you see what your dad’s got first and then come back down to this one after we’ve had a chance to lift what we need… before the troops parade through like a bunch of majorettes in their size nines and…’ She paused and winked at Gus. ‘If I’m correctly informed, a pair of shiny dance shoes.’ She poked Gus none too gently in the arm, flung her head back and let loose a guffaw that rattled the windows.
Gus shook his head. ‘Ha, bloody, ha!’ He pointed at the living room. ‘What can you tell me about that body?’
‘This one’s another girl. Looks like the missing son might be your number one suspect.’
With Alice following, Gus walked back towards the stairs. ‘Could be, Suse, or maybe victim number three. Best not jump to conclusions just yet, hmm?’
Suse snorted. ‘I hope he’s alive. We’re backed up to the hilt as it is. Any more bodies and I’m going to have to ask Tesco if we can borrow their storage facilities! You know it doesn’t go down well with the shoppers when they find Carte de Morgue next to their Ben and Jerry’s cookie dough.’ With a giggle and a wave, she was off.
Alice snorted. ‘Bloody idiot!’
Reaching the top landing, Gus once more looked around. The smell of stale booze was fainter up here. Nevertheless, the paintings were askew on the wall and the pristine white carpet was speckled with stains. Cans were tossed across the landing, some with trails of beer staining the area around them. The bedroom doors were ajar, revealing similar scenes of destruction. ‘Well, looks like the little bastards had a good time, doesn’t it?’
‘And, if my nose is correct – and it doesn’t often let me down – I’d have to surmise that an overindulgence in a variety of guilty pleasures, some illegal, no doubt, has resulted in a veritable volcano of vomit. Or, in other words, they’ve been shagging, smoking dope and drinking themselves silly.’
‘Such a way with words, Al. As if the stench wasn’t bad enough on its own, you feel the need to embellish it.’
Alice leered and added with relish, ‘Ah, but the other little titbit of info my nasal passages sense is…’
Gus turned and waited as she raised her nose in the air and sniffed, ‘Alright, go on then, what else?’
‘Blood!’
‘Shit,’ Gus tutte
d and began to breathe slowly through his mouth. Now she’d mentioned it, he could smell it too. His own blood drained from his face leaving him light-headed. He swallowed, concentrating on his breathing. Should have brought my damn Vicks! Why couldn’t he have inherited his dad’s constitution? No matter how often he came across blood in his line of work it was still a major trauma for him. Mind you, not as much of a trauma for him as for the dead girl behind the door. As he approached it, he tried to ignore the butterfly wings in his chest. If he just breathed through his mouth, he could get through this. He always had before.
Alice held out her hand, which was cupped round something. ‘Go on. You might as well take it. Better than you puking all over the crime scene. Wouldn’t want Suse on your back, now, would we?’
When he held out his hand, she dropped a small Vicks vial onto his palm. Gus slathered some onto his hankie and handed the bottle back to her. Straightening his shoulders, he ignored Alice’s smirk. It was okay for her, taunting him. She didn’t have to concentrate whilst trying to hold her stomach contents down with sheer force of will. ‘Right, Sherlock, we already knew the body was in the main bedroom and, well,’ he hooked his thumb towards the door, ‘that is the main bedroom.’
He steeled himself, reached for the handle and opened the door. ‘You get the low-down from the CSIs and get them to walk through the rest of the upstairs with them. I’ll focus on the victim. Let’s hope they’ve got something to give us.’
As he entered, Dr McGuire moved away from the double bed. Gus’ eyes were immediately drawn, not to the bed, but to the wall behind it which had been defaced with large, red, block capital letters:
