by M A Comley
Shaw shrugged. “How should I know? I ain’t got any ankle biters of my own. You have, though. Has Louie broken up yet?”
Ah touché! He was ashamed that he didn’t have the answer to her question. “Umm… I’m not sure. Wasn’t that why Saskia Hartley was picking her son up, end of term?”
“Yeah, but he was at boarding school. Not sure how they compare to the schools in the real world. Isn’t each area different?”
Hero cringed. Shaw was right. He was the one with the child, albeit a stepchild, not her.
He should’ve known if Louie was at school or not. He took out his mobile and rang home. “Hi, Fay. Can’t talk long. Is Louie at school today?”
“Hero? What the heck do you mean? What’s happened?”
He could hear the fear making her voice tremble and kicked himself for causing her unnecessary worry. “Didn’t mean to worry you, hon. I just wondered when the kids broke up. That’s all.”
“Damn you, Hero, why didn’t you ask that in the first place. I thought something had happened to Louie. He breaks up this afternoon.”
“Okay, thanks, Fay. See you later.” His wife didn’t even bother to say goodbye to him before she hung up. Hero glanced over at Shaw, who was shaking her head. “What?”
“Men. You never think, do you?”
“Bloody hell, don’t you start. So I approached it the wrong way, big deal,” Hero said, exasperated.
Shaw ignored his comment and looked out the windscreen at the street, which looked like a ghost town. Suddenly, she pointed to a big stone heading their way. “Get down,” she called out.
Both detectives ducked their heads into each other’s laps. Hero heard the windscreen crack.
“Is it safe to look up now do you think?” Shaw asked.
Tentatively, Hero unfurled and peeped out the windscreen. He was taken aback by what he saw. Standing in front of his car were four youths in hooded jumpers, all with their arms folded across their chests, just eyeballing him. Hero reached for the handle on the door, but Shaw’s stopped him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, sir.”
“What? These punks don’t scare me—” Before he could say anything else, two of the youths bent down and picked up two large metal bars. They ran at the car and began pounding the bonnet. Hero started the engine and slammed the car in reverse. He looked in his rear-view mirror to see the youths laughing at him and giving him the finger.
“That was a close one,” Shaw muttered.
“You’re telling me. They’re fucking psychos.”
“Now do you understand what we’re dealing with?”
Hero nodded. “It’s beginning to sink in, yes. The question is what the bloody hell are we going to do about it?”
“Apart from go in with CO19, I’m not sure.”
Shaw laughed nervously, but Hero was lost in thought. Hmm…maybe going in with an armed response team might be the answer they were looking for to tackle this unruly gang. “Either that or water cannons. Now there’s a thought! Do you know anyone in the anti-hooliganism squad?”
Shaw shook her head. “In all seriousness, we’ve got to combat them somehow, sir.”
“We have indeed, Sergeant. Maybe it will be a matter of joining forces with some of the other teams. We need to get these guys off the street before they kill anyone else. That doesn’t mean that I’m not going to try and talk to this bastard Jez, though. The question is how? This gang probably eat, sleep, and shag together.”
Shaw let out a long sigh. “Don’t expect me to come up with an idea. You’re the DI.”
“Maybe so, but you’re my partner, Shaw, and this job is supposed to be about teamwork, got it?”
They drove back to the station in silence. Hero stopped off at reception and handed his keys over to the desk sergeant. “Can you sort me out another car, Harry? Some thugs just used mine for target practice.”
Harry’s usually stern face brightened into a large smile. “That’ll teach you to stick your nose in where it isn’t wanted, sir.”
Hero gave him a warning glance that was attached to a grunt, then turned on his heel. He headed back up the stairs, his mind full of ‘what ifs’ regarding how to proceed with the case.
After viewing the McDonald’s CCTV footage several more times, Hero rang the manager.
“Mr. Lawson, it’s DI Nelson. I appreciate you letting us have a copy of the CCTV footage of the crime. I was wondering if you had any internal cameras at the restaurant? A spy camera, maybe, for keeping an eye on the staff?”
“Sorry, no. Although the amount of times money goes missing out of the till, I think we should have,” Lawson replied grumpily, before adding, “Have you caught those bastards yet?”
“Er no… not yet.”
“Can I ask why you wanted to know if there was another camera inside the building?” Lawson asked.
“I like to cover every angle on a case. I guess we’ll get the full picture when your staff give us their statements. Is it still all right for me to send out a couple of uniformed officers this afternoon?”
“Of course. I’ll make sure one of the offices is cleared up for them.”
“Thanks, that’s appreciated. I’ll get in touch if there’s anything else I can think of to ask you.”
Hero hung up, and his hand was still attached to the phone when it rang again.
“DI Nelson. How can I help?”
“Patch, it’s Susan. I have the post results on the Hartleys. Would you like to go through them in person or over the phone?”
“Over the phone, if you don’t mind, Susan.” Hero picked up a pen and scrabbled around on his desk, looking for a clean sheet of paper to jot down notes on.
“Okay, I’ll start with the boy first. As the clothes to his upper body were ripped, I began there. He had contusions across his whole upper torso as though he’d been beaten with something, although that doesn’t account for his ripped clothes.”
Hero interrupted her. “The staff are giving us their statements today. The lad at the scene was a little cagey about what went on inside the restaurant. I’ll see if uniform can get any further details for us.”
“Okay, he could be the type who bruises easily, though, so maybe you shouldn’t waste too much time on that side of things. His mother, however, is a different matter entirely.”
“Let’s hear it? You’ve already intimated that a further crime was carried out on her. I hope it’s not what I’m thinking.”
Susan let out a huge sigh. “If you think she was raped, then yes, you thought right. I lifted her skirt at the scene and saw that she was wearing no panties. I assumed there and then that the poor woman had been raped. Additional tests proved my assumption to be correct.”
“Bastards! Although I’m not surprised from what we’ve found out about the gang already and after viewing the CCTV footage of how the mother and son were mown down. I’ll get a copy of the tape made for you. It’ll help substantiate your evidence. You do know that the car reversed over them, don’t you?” Hero stated gloomily.
“I figured as much. Send the copy over. It’ll be good to piece things together. Although, like I said, I presumed pretty much that was what had happened because of the tread marks on the mother’s face and skull. That’s about it, Patch. I’ve sewn them up. Ready for the husband to identify their bodies. He’s due in this evening around six p.m.”
“Poor sod! This has really hit him hard. I think I’ll come down there for a bit of moral support. Was there anything else?”
“Nothing else. That was enough, I believe, Patch. I’ll see you later.”
Hero and Julie left the station at around five thirty and drove through the busy traffic to the mortuary, where they took seats in the hallway outside the viewing room while they waited for Rupert Hartley to make an appearance.
Julie jabbed Hero in the ribs when Rupert walked in and slowly made his way up to them. “Is he drunk?” Julie asked out of the corner of her mouth.
“Shit! It sure
looks that way to me. Say nothing. Let’s see how things progress before diving in feet first, eh?”
Hartley came to a halt beside Hero and flung himself, with his hands still in his trouser pockets, against the clinically white wall. Hero stood up and faced the man. He extended his hand for Hartley to shake, but the man chose to ignore it. His eyes were cast downwards as if he were ashamed by his drunken state. His chin stubble looked to be about twenty-four hours old, and Hero noticed that he was still dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing when he saw him last. He feared Hartley was going to deal very poorly with seeing the bodies of his wife and son in the viewing rooms, and he decided to go in search of Susan to warn her.
“Damn. It’s tough enough when the relatives see their loved ones, but to view them when he’s drunk is going to be terrible for him. I’m not sure how he’s going to react. Maybe we should get security on standby, just in case?” Susan suggested.
Hero noticed how tired she looked. “I’ll call them. Can you take a five-minute break before you deal with him? You look knackered.”
Susan waved aside his concerns. “I’ll be fine. Nothing an early night won’t put right later. You call security while I finish signing some paperwork, then I can call it a day after I’ve dealt with Mr. Hartley.”
“Deal,” Hero said as he placed the call.
With two security guards standing at either end of the hallway, Hero and Susan made their way towards Julie and Hartley. Julie nodded a hello at Susan and stood up. She reached out and tried to guide Hartley into the room, but he shrugged her off. “I can manage on my own,” he slurred harshly.
Julie stepped back and let Hero follow the man into the room. Hartley stopped in the doorway and drew in a heavy breath. “I can still smell her perfume,” he said, more coherently than Hero would’ve expected.
Hero, too, detected the faint smell above the odours of the mortuary. Or is that my imagination?
Hartley walked up to the white cross sitting in an alcove on one side of the room. He made the sign of the cross in front of himself and turned around. Once Hartley had positioned himself close to his wife’s upper body, Hero motioned with his head for Susan to pull back the cloth. The two detectives and the pathologist watched as Hartley again sucked in a large breath. Then he moved closer to his wife and ran a gentle finger down her lily-white cheek and across her blue lips. “Oh, Saskia, my love, there will never be a love greater than ours.” Hartley bent down to kiss her forehead. With his eyelids squeezed firmly together, he moved down and brushed his lips against hers. He reached out to steady himself on the table as his drink-addled mind sent him off balance.
Hero walked forward and placed his hand on Hartley’s forearm. “Are you all right?”
Hartley glanced up at him, confusion settling in his eyes and face. “I doubt that I’ll ever be all right again. Do you know what it’s like to lose a partner and a son?”
Hero shook his head, and his gaze dropped to the floor. “No. I’m truly sorry for your loss. Do you need any help with the funeral arrangements?”
Rupert Hartley looked momentarily dumbfounded. He pulled himself upright and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “My God, do I have to deal with that? Is it my responsibility?” He looked over at Susan for help.
Susan nodded slowly. “I’m sorry. I’m sure Hero can arrange for someone to help you if you feel the task would be too much to deal with.”
“That’s right. We can help if that’s what you want or need,” Hero affirmed.
Rather than answering, Hartley covered his wife’s head with the sheet and moved to the door. “I’d like to see my son now.”
Susan opened the door for him and pointed to the room opposite. The four of them entered the room, and Hartley went through the same angst as he had when he’d viewed his wife’s body. After he’d kissed his son and said farewell, he left the room and slammed himself against the wall in the corridor. His head banged against the wall several times as tears sprang from his eyes and coursed down his cheek. “Why? Why them?” he repeated over and over again.
The two detectives and the pathologist remained silent, simply unable to answer his question. But they would soon.
Chapter 3
Before leaving the mortuary, Hero arranged for Julie to call at Rupert Hartley’s mansion the next day, to help him with the arrangements for the funerals. Hero shrugged off Julie’s annoyance with the burdensome task. Hartley had appeared relieved to be given the help, and as they walked to the car park together, he asked if Hero had any news on his family’s murderers yet.
As Hartley got in the backseat of the taxi, which Julie had ordered for him, Hero admitted that the clues they had so far were sketchy. He promised that as soon as they knew who the people involved were, Rupert would be told immediately. The expression on Hartley’s face told Hero that he didn’t believe a word. But the last thing he wanted to do was give Hartley any ammunition to set him off on any kind of revenge mission. He’d had to deal with other grieving families who’d become vigilantes overnight.
Rupert woke up the following morning with a thumping headache. After going through the trauma of identifying his wife and only child, he had returned home, dismissed James for the evening, and gone to bed with a bottle of malt whiskey. He was regretting that decision. He knew the woman sergeant would be arriving around ten, which left him an hour to do what he needed to do. He picked up the phone and dialled an old friend—Dave Wheeler, an investigative journalist with the Manchester Evening News.
“Dave, it’s Rupert.”
“Rupert, God, man, I was going to ring you this week. I’m so sorry about Saskia and Laurence. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I’m devastated, Dave, but I’d rather not dwell on it, if you don’t mind. I wanted to ask a favour.”
“Shoot.”
Rupert inhaled and exhaled a large breath before he continued. “You’re aware of what happened, right?”
“The hit-and-run? Yes, I’m aware.”
Rupert sighed again. “That’s not how I’m reading it. If it was a genuine hit-and-run, why would the car reverse back over the victims?” He corrected himself, “Saskia and Laurence. The police have been hopeless up till now, and I suspect the lead investigator knows more about the perpetrators than he’s letting on.”
“Really! Why would he do that?” Dave asked.
Rupert smiled to himself. He knew he had piqued Dave’s interest. “I’m not sure. I was hoping you might do some digging for me?”
The journalist sucked in air through his teeth. “You know, when I said I’m an investigative journo, I didn’t mean I spend all my time investigating the coppers, mate.”
“I know. I just thought you would do me a favour, just this once.” Rupert crossed his fingers tightly in his lap. He was sitting in his favourite place, the library, surrounded by the only thing left that truly mattered to him anymore—his books.
“I’m not sure. I can have a word with the boss if you like, but he probably won’t agree to it. As it’s you, I’ll see what I can do on the side.”
“I’d appreciate that, mate. I’ve got someone coming over in a while to help with the funeral arrangements. Will you be at the funeral?”
“Of course, Rupert. That goes without saying. Will Saskia’s parents be coming over from Russia?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “No. To be honest, I haven’t informed them. They disowned her when she left Russia years ago. Do you think I should contact them?” Rupert asked, doubt seeping through him.
“That’s a toughie. If they haven’t made contact with her for years, then she probably won’t be missed. However, she was their flesh and blood, and they have a right to know that she’s no longer with us.”
“I’ll call them later. If they won’t accept the call, that’ll answer my question, won’t it?” Rupert opened the drawer in the side table beside him and extracted an address book. “I better go. This woman will be here soon. I’ll let you know what the arra
ngements are later. Please see what you can find out for me in the meantime?”
“You have my assurance that I will do my best, Rupert. Speak to you later, mate.”
Rupert hung up and spent the next half an hour looking through the address book. He made mental strike-throughs of the people he definitely had no intention of informing about the funeral because he thought they would show fake sympathy at the gravesides of his wife and son. No matter how much he tried to distract himself with other tasks, his mind constantly relived his family’s horrendous ordeal. How long will this torture go on? He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t hear either the doorbell ring or the door to the library open.
“Hello, Mr. Hartley.”
The quiet voice of the detective startled him. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware that you had arrived.” He half-smiled an apology.
“Where would you like to begin?” Julie asked. She shrugged off her coat and handed it to the butler.
“Would you like a tea or coffee?” Rupert asked.
“Coffee would be lovely, thank you.”
“James, will you bring us two coffees, please?”
The butler nodded and left the room.
“It’s very good of you to help me with this, detective. I’m sure it’s not part of your job description.”
Julie smiled. “You’re right, it’s not, but Hero—sorry, DI Nelson—likes to go the extra mile to help the families of the victims.” The detective cringed when she said the final words.
“I see. Well, I hope I won’t be a burden on your time for too long. Would you rather do this in the office or the lounge, perhaps?”
“I really don’t mind, Mr. Hartley. Whatever suits you.”
Rupert stood, picked up the address book, and walked over to the door. “Then I think we’ll go through to the lounge.”
He pushed open the door to the vast panelled room whose walls were covered with framed photos of him with his family. On the wall above the grand open fireplace hung a large family portrait. He motioned for Julie to sit in the chesterfield. Rupert crossed the room to retrieve a small padded wooden chair, which he positioned beside her. With his address book on his lap, he asked, “Where do we begin?”
