by Scott Hunter
“Sorry, guv. What’s the problem with humanity, then?” Phelps settled into the chair opposite, which creaked loudly in protest.
“If you have to ask that question, Phelps, then I really do despair.”
Phelps grinned. “Point taken.”
“It’s the insurers.” Moran flicked a sheet of paper on his desk. “They’re refusing to cover the cost of the damage to my property.”
“On what grounds?”
“Exemption on the grounds that the damage was caused by a terrorist attack, for which I apparently need a separate policy. Which, of course, I don’t have.”
Phelps raised his bushy eyebrows. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish. Can you believe–?”
They were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.
“May I?” A thin, balding man half-entered the room. There was a proprietary look about him, as if he were about to take ownership of Moran’s domain.
“And you are?”
“Superintendent Alan Sheldrake. OCG. I–”
Phelps interrupted. “Ah. That’s what I was about to tell you, guv. The girl in the woods–”
“Thank you, Detective Constable,” Sheldrake broke in and made an ushering gesture towards the door. “I’ll take it from here. If you wouldn’t mind?”
“Acting Detective Inspector,” Phelps growled.
“Go on, Phelps,” Moran told him. “I’ll see you in a minute.” Something told him that Sheldrake was a man of brevity – and probably a pain in the backside to boot.
Sheldrake closed the door.
“Coffee, sir?” Moran rose to switch the kettle on.
“No. This won’t take long, Moran. You’ve heard of Operation Kestrel?”
Moran sat down again, but Sheldrake remained standing. “Yes, of course.”
“You found a body. The girl.”
“Yes. I’m waiting for foren–”
“Don’t bother. I’ll take it.”
“Sir?”
Sheldrake hesitated. His face had a pale, slightly yellowish hue and there were dark smudges under his eyes which suggested that he’d spent too many nights away from his bed. He gave a weary sigh. “She’s one of ours, Moran. Her name is – was – DS Valerie Reed-Purvis.”
“Oh. I see. But–”
“She was working undercover. Deep cover. She was meeting a local dealer – a useful contact. He was about to lead her to the next level.”
“What happened?” Moran had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly what had happened.
“The dealer was attacked. It seems likely that DS Reed-Purvis saw it happen and tried to intervene.” Sheldrake shrugged. “She got the worst of the encounter, as you know.”
“Where was she last seen?”
Sheldrake shrugged. “One of the town centre bars, I believe. I don’t recall which – DS Flynn can confirm the location. They were working on this together.”
“And the dealer? He wouldn’t by any chance be a young Asian, blinged up to the nines? No identification?”
“Yes, he would,” Sheldrake acknowledged tersely.
“So,” Moran said. “We’re both looking for the same killer.”
“No. I’m looking for the killer. You can move on and leave this one to me.”
Moran felt a flush of anger. “How do you know for sure the attack was drug-related?”
Sheldrake leaned over Moran’s desk. His eyes blazed. “Of course it was drug-related. Unless you know better?”
“Well, how about a standard mugging, a grudge killing, a crime passionnel–”
“Don’t try to be clever, Moran. I know what this is about. Organised Crime has been working on this particular drugs ring for months.”
“Sir, if I might–”
“That’s enough, Moran. I’ve spoken to your Chief. You’re off this one. Understood?”
Moran nodded, fuming. “Sir.”
“Glad we see eye to eye. I want everything you and your team have established, and everything you’re in the process of following up, handed over to me by Thursday at the latest. Got that?” Sheldrake gave him a lingering look and swept out of the office, leaving the door open behind him.
Moran picked up his empty coffee cup and flung it into the corner. It didn’t make him feel any better.
Moran found Phelps in the car park. He felt slightly calmer, but not to the extent that he intended to lie down without a fight. This smelled wrong, and he was going to find out why.
Phelps looked up as Moran approached and gave him a wry smile. “I had a feeling he might rub you up the wrong way, guv. What’d he want?”
Moran outlined his conversation with Sheldrake. “The Chief is away until ... when?”
Phelps frowned. “Guv, are you sure–?”
“There’s no direct evidence that Bling Boy’s murder is related to Kestrel,” Moran broke in tersely. “It was too open, too blatant. A drugs ring would deal with problems more circumspectly.”
Phelps nodded. “I tend to agree, but this Sheldrake looks like a forceful sort of character. He won’t like us poking our noses in.”
Moran snorted. “It’s the other way round as far as I’m concerned. Till Friday, wasn’t it?”
“Guv?”
“Our illustrious leader’s absence.”
“Yep. He’s at some conference in Maidenhead.”
“That gives us an extra day, then.. To hell with Sheldrake’s ultimatum.”
Phelps shrugged. “If you’re sure, guv.” He took a deep pull on his cigarette.
“Sure? I’m as sure as eggs is eggs, DI Phelps.”
Phelps grinned. “Saving the grammatical anomaly, that’s good enough for me, guv.”
Moran poured himself a glass of Sangiovese and settled into his settee. What he needed was some quality thinking time. He was sure, whether by instinct or some subconscious process, that Bling Boy’s death was unrelated to Sheldrake’s operation; that the killer hadn’t necessarily been aware of the victim’s involvement in drug dealing. The big question was whether the Bling Boy killer had also murdered DS Reed-Purvis. Sheldrake’s story suggested that was the case, but Moran had learned not to jump to conclusions. The answer, he hoped, would be supplied by the pathologist, Dr Moninder Bagri, tomorrow morning. The secondary question, one that always sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine, was whether this was a one-off, or whether they were dealing with a potential serial killer.
Moran closed his eyes. Strangely, the first image that came to mind was unrelated to the case. Shona Kempster had popped into his head unannounced in much the same way as her previous phone calls had done. He took another sip of Sangiovese and shook his head. Here you go again, Brendan.
The phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hi Brendan. Shona.”
“Hello. I was just thinking about you.”
“Were you indeed? Nice things, I hope.”
“Of course,” Moran heard himself say.
A pause. “I love the way you say ‘Hello’.”
“Ah.” Moran felt his heart skip a beat. “The accent’s still there, then.”
“To be sure.” Shona’s voice was silky, teasing. “How was your day?”
“Started well, finished badly,” Moran said truthfully. “Yours?”
“Well, I had a few things to sort out, you know.”
“How’s the job-hunting?”
“Job-hunting?”
“You said you weren’t at the clinic any more. I assumed you were job-hunting.”
“Oh, right. Yes, of course. Nothing so far, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sure something will turn up.”
“Yes. Brendan?”
“Uh huh?”
“Could I ask you something in confidence?”
“Sure. Fire away.”
“No, I mean, I think it should be face-to-face.”
“Oh, OK. Would you like me to come over?” Moran felt his mouth dry and his pulse quicken a little. He took a gulp of wine.
/> “No. I mean, perhaps I can come to you? Or maybe–”
“What about dinner tomorrow evening?” Woah, Brendan Moran. Steady, steady...
Shona’s voice softened. “That would be lovely.”
“Great. How about I pick you up at eight? You’d better let me have your address.”
“No, I don’t want you to go to any trouble. I can meet you in town?”
“Sure. If you’d prefer.”
“How about outside Nino’s?”
“The Italian? Sure, good choice.” He chuckled. “Absolutely irresistible to an Italophile like myself. See you then.”
Moran signed off and replaced the receiver with a frown. He felt a nudge on his leg. “Hello, Archie. Time for a wee walk, is it?” He heaved himself up from the sofa and retrieved his stick, reluctantly as usual; its presence reminded him of his frailty, of how close he’d come to death. So, what’s wrong with living a little, Brendan? She likes you. Enjoy it...
As he left the house a small voice whispered in his ear. Yes, enjoy it. While you can...
Chapter 6
Dr Moninder Bagri was Moran’s favourite pathologist. Small in stature, big on detail and humour – his own brand of humour – he was also renowned for his ability to find and fit together the tiniest and most obscure pieces in any given forensic puzzle.
What Moran was after this morning was speed. He had persuaded Bagri to begin thirty minutes before schedule, before Superintendent Sheldrake turned up to oversee the examination of DS Reed-Purvis’ remains. From behind the glass in the obs room Moran watched the preparations. Eventually the body was wheeled out and arranged on the examination table. Dr Bagri glanced up and made a gesture of invitation. When he spoke his voice was tinny and trebly through the loudspeakers.
“Come on down, Chief Inspector! We’re all ready for you!”
Moran made his way along the corridor and into the sterile environment of the examination room, wondering not for the first time how Bagri could remain so cheerfully buoyant in his work. The waft of chemicals and the inescapable odour of death made his nostrils twitch. He’d skipped breakfast deliberately; it had proved a wise decision on many previous occasions.
“So, the early bird is catching the worm, is it?”
“Something like that, Dr Bagri.” Moran smiled. “I have a little internal conflict with Superintendent Sheldrake.”
“Ah. Say no more of it,” Bagri chuckled. “I am completely understanding. As a matter of fact, I told the esteemed Superintendent that I would not be available until ten this morning.”
“You’re too good to me, Dr Bagri. I appreciate it.”
Bagri wagged a thin finger. “And the favours I have received from your good self?” He grinned a complicit smile. “Too many to count.” The pathologist selected an instrument from the tray and held it up for inspection. “Good,” he announced. “Now then, a moment’s pause, isn’t it?”
Moran remembered this mark of respect from previous autopsies. It always brought him up short, focused his mind on the reality of the situation. Someone had lost their life in violent circumstances. In this case it was a young girl – young enough to be his daughter. He made himself look down at the pale form laid out on the cold steel.
Reed-Purvis had been very attractive; her lips were full and her nose delicate and shapely. Her hair was cut in a fashionably short style; her breasts were small but firm and her fingers were long and artistic, the unbroken nails well-manicured. Her belly was flat and toned, the product, no doubt, of regular attendance at the gym.
“We proceed,” Bagri said quietly, more to himself than to Moran.
Moran peered closely at the detective sergeant’s white body. Bagri began with the hands and arms, probing them gently, pointing out any anomalies and paying particular attention to a line of bruises on the upper arm.
“Fingers?” Moran asked.
“Undoubtedly,” Bagri replied. “And judging from the spread and dimensions, fingers belonging to a male.
“What about there?” Moran wanted to know about some bruising he could see on the girl’s forehead.
“Ah.” Bagri frowned. “Produced by a hard, flat object. Very painful. See here as well–” Bagri indicated the bruising around the eyes. “All related, I am thinking.”
“He nutted her,” Moran said, his lip curling in distaste. “The scumbag nutted her.”
“Ah, with the head, yes,” Bagri agreed. “The marks are indicative that this is a possibility.”
“And the force of the blow? Would it have been enough to render her unconscious?”
“Oh, indeed,” Bagri said, looking up over his half-moon spectacles. “Very much so.”
“OK,” Moran said. “He spotted her, caught her and knocked her for six. Then into the car and off to Sulham Woods. I’d suggest a strong, fit assailant, Dr Bagri.”
“Yes, yes.” Bagri nodded several times in quick succession. “This is a young lady in her prime, muscular, fit indeed, a good strong runner I am thinking. To incapacitate her is a difficult thing.” He continued his external examination, finally parting Reed-Purvis’ hair and running his instrument along her scalp. A few seconds later he gave a triumphant exclamation. “Ah!”
“What is it, Dr Bagri?”
“A flake which is definitely not a dandruff,” the little doctor held up his forceps.
“Then what?” Moran asked, trying to curb his impatience. Bagri loved to draw out his findings and conclusions for as long as possible, the only trait Moran found trying in the pathology expert.
“I am thinking maybe, paint?” Bagri cocked his head to one side. “We shall soon see once we put it to the test.”
“Paint?” Moran was puzzled. “What kind of paint?”
“Perhaps she banged her head,” Bagri suggested, “maybe in the town, yes? Before the burial, or maybe in his car? In the boot?” Bagri turned his attention to the fingernails of the right hand. Two were chipped and torn, in contrast to the neatness of the others. “Let us see what lies beneath – ah.”
Moran bent closer as Bagri retrieved a tiny sliver from beneath a nail. “More of the same, I am thinking. Maybe the same brand of paint?”
“Maybe indeed, Dr Bagri.” Moran was delighted. As usual, the hidden things had been exposed by Bagri’s painstaking attention. “We’ll see what the lab comes up with.”
“We shall. And the toxicology report will also be available for you by the end of the morning.”
“Thank you,” Moran pumped the little man’s hand.
There was a commotion in the gallery, a booming voice echoed in the corridor. “Damn,” Moran said. “He’s early.”
A wiry figure bustled into view, accompanied by a thin, ascetic-looking female sergeant. Dr Bagri smiled his winning smile at the newcomers. A door banged at the far end of the examination room. By the time Sheldrake and his DS had taken up position at the pathologist’s side Moran was in his car and on his way to forensics.
Leaving forensics and bubbling with impatience, Moran drove home to squeeze in Archie’s walk before he reconvened the team back at the station. As he approached his house he noticed that there was something on his door. A note?
He snatched it from beneath the knocker where it had been wedged. It was a picture, a graphic of a knife with two large drops of blood dripping from its blade.
What on earth …?
He turned and surveyed the road. There was no one in sight.
Moran entered the house cautiously, but Archie met him excitedly as usual and nothing else seemed amiss. Irritated and perplexed he crumpled the paper and fired it into the bin. His mobile bleeped.
“Moran.”
“Guv?” Phelps’ voice rasped across the network. “There’s been another one.”
Better, he thought. Much better. Cleaner, too. The elation had dissipated, bringing a deep sense of satisfaction and peace. If he’d been unsure at the beginning, now he was certain he’d done the right thing.
He had spent the morning dispos
ing of unnecessary junk. The room in which he stood contained only a bed, a TV on a stand and a small table with an open newspaper spread across its worn surface. Everything else had been consigned to charity shops, skips, and for the heavier items the local dump. It felt therapeutic, ridding himself of his earthly possessions. What need had he for material things?
In any case, it was time to move on. He had so many operations to plan, and according to the newspapers the police were in the process of linking his local exploits. It would be good to move to a fresh location – somewhere simple, somewhere with good views. He would check out the estate agents first thing in the morning.
The Kafir yawned, stretched, picked up the newspaper and skim-read the headlines, paying particular attention to the photograph of the investigating policeman. DCI Moran’s statement was copybook waffle which the Kafir read with amusement:
The Senior Investigating Officer, Detective Chief Inspector Brendan Moran, said: ‘We have a team of detectives working on the case and we are committed to carrying out a full and thorough investigation into the circumstances leading to this tragic incident. We are renewing our appeal for any witnesses to come forward, as I know there were a large number of people in the town centre at the time of the incident who may have seen something, or who may have information which could assist our ongoing inquiry. We would ask them to call us.
Anyone with information can call the twenty-four-hour police enquiry centre on 101, or call Crimestoppers anonymously on 0800 555 111.
DCI Moran himself looked tired; his face in the photograph was lined and drawn. But there was something else...
The Kafir frowned, puzzled. It was as if something important had been mentioned which he had somehow failed to grasp.. Frustrated, he went to make a hot drink. No matter, he told himself. Anything of importance wouldn’t escape his attention for long..
“Grim,” Phelps said quietly. “My boy’s about the same age.”
Moran nodded. He had to agree that the victim looked very young, almost too young to be out on his own, but he was probably in his early to mid twenties. The corpse was squatting in a foetal position in the corner of Marks and Spencer’s entrance lobby. Apart from the unnatural stillness of the body, a tiny smear of blood on the shop window was the only indication that anything untoward had happened. Which, Moran realised, was the reason people had just passed by without stopping to investigate. Just another homeless kid in a shop doorway. All that was missing was the dog on a length of dirty string. If anyone had stopped to look properly, though, they would have seen that this homeless kid was wearing a sharp suit – now stained and crumpled, but still recognisably a good cut. He pulled on a pair of plastic gloves.
