“I had no choice,” Nick remarked glumly, squaring up and placing some distance between them.
“No choice? You could have told the truth,” Carley offered.
“Truth? Where would that have gotten us?” Nick lambasted as he retracted from her and pushed her away. His actions wounded her, and her hardened exterior shrunk as the agony of heartbreak filled her face. Any other girl would shed a tear, but Carley quickly rallied, substituting anger for anguish.
“Being your snitch could have got me killed. But I did it anyway!” Carley bellowed, attracting the attention of the other patrons.
“Why did you?” Nick questioned.
Carley got to her feet cocooning him from the other patrons. She gazed back at him shaking her head slowly, diffusing her present animosity. This time she could not hold back the emotion and for the first time Nick saw a trembling weakness in her eyes. But he couldn’t bring himself to stand up and console her. She retreated defiantly and declared, “I have my reasons.” The emotion drowned her words and she stormed off before giving away anymore. Nick watched her leave until her figure had vanished in the crowd. A peculiar anxiety had come over him. For the first time he missed her, and he felt the compulsion to chase after her.
In his pocket, his mobile phone rang. He removed it and studied the screen, then answered the call.
3
The busy activity of the police and ambulance crews obscured the otherwise drab street. Nick pulled up and parked his unmarked car away from the commotion and quickly alighted. He studied the scene as he approached. The street had been cordoned off in typical operational procedure. However, there seemed a larger than usual complement of officers on the scene especially in this part of the city. Nick slowed his pace down as his instinct told him that that this was no ordinary scene. Whatever had happened was important. The fatigue of this day began to paralyse his already exhausted body. He wished that it could end, and he could find some solace in the comfort of his snug bed. But then he sobered up as he reached the crowds of onlookers that had gathered treating the crime scene like a morbid reality TV show.
Nick made his way through the uncooperative bystanders and then flashed his newly acquired badge to a Constable responsible for crowd control. The Constable quickly permitted him through the makeshift police tape barrier and he marched up to the Constable in charge.
“Evening Constable. What do we have?” Nick said professionally.
“Body sir. Second floor flat. East block, number 14,” The Constable replied, with an unusually formal tone.
“Forensics on the scene?” Nick enquired with removed brevity.
“Got here twenty minutes ago sir,” the Constable confirmed as Nick began to indignantly survey the street and the onlookers.
The street resembled any other council in London, dominated on either side by red-brick rows of flats and tenements, eroded by the urban decay and tinted by invasive orange street lighting, dispelling any intended quaintness. The streets seemed to tell the stories of its occupant’s strife, echoing the repression of hearts and minds in the form of graffiti and waste.
Nick knew this life all too well. He grew up in a street and neighbourhood similar to this. He felt strangely comforted by the blatant realism of it, unthreatened by its ominous danger. Although he would have regarded the police in his neighbourhood with unashamed animosity hurling abusive slogans and standing in opposition to the social obedience and conformity that the uniform signified. The nostalgic thoughts of rebellion brought a strange whiff of excitement and empowerment. But this soon dissipated as he reminded himself which side he stood on now.
Nick returned his gaze to the street and the onlookers who seemed to concoct their own drama of the event, asking and answering their own questions, as if they were amateur detectives providing their own interpretations of what had transpired. His scan of the crowd came to a halt on one face. It belonged to a young man of middle-eastern descent. He seemed unfazed by the bystander drama, almost significant by his stance. His face was demure and doleful, as though it contained an expression of will. He was handsome, with light brown skin, dark brown eyes and defined facial features that benefitted from a pronounced cleft and sculpted cheek bones. He stood with prominence, a manner that separated him from the crowd. He had his eyes fixed on Nick almost with an intention of purposeful connection. Nick continued to scan the rest of the crowd, attempting to exhibit casual nonchalance, but the man remained fixed on him.
“Any witness statements?” Nick enquired softly.
“Few sir, but this area is full of Fugees sir…” the Constable blurted, but then apprehensively rephrased as he noted Nick’s disapproval, “Foreigners sir, Afghans, Iraqi, little or no English. And those that do, almost never talk to us.”
Nick carefully turned to gaze at the man who seemed so preoccupied with him, but he had vanished. Something told him that he was important. But he wasn’t sure why just yet.
For a department that relied on precision and scientific certainty, forensics seemed to conduct themselves with sporadic dishevelment, Nick thought as he entered the flat where even more commotion seemed to ensue than on the street. It seemed as if the entire forensics team had vacated the comfort of their congenial laboratory and were deployed in this tiny little flat. With so many personnel on the scene, it made it difficult to process the scene without contaminating it.
Nick strolled through the flat cautiously, mentally recording the environment, often taking in elements that others missed. His ability to meticulously record a scene was what made him progress through the ranks so voraciously. He saw what others didn’t. Everything else in his life might have been shrouded in confusion but when he worked, a certain clarity pervaded. He could get the job done better than the rest. And they knew it.
Nick came up behind a short balding portly man who wouldn’t seem out of place meddling in grease and oil in a car garage. He wore a plain grey suit that seemed to be his only one and it had never seen the sanctity of a dry-cleaner, sporting the irreverent stains from pies and cheap instant coffee – two things that this Scots-man could not get enough of.
“Pulling overtime, Charlie? Nick announced as he surprised the man.
Charlie irked slightly as he swung around to see Nick grinning.
“I’ll say. Missing the game n’all,” Charlie complained as he shook Nick’s extended hand, directing Nick further into the flat.
“They stuck you with this one, did they?” Charlie jested.
“Yeah. Why?” Nick asked, perplexed by the remark.
“Nothing. 9-9-9 call came in at eight seventeen, from the phone box on the street,” Charlie continued, glossing over the remark.
“Who from? Neighbours?” Nick probed.
“Unknown,” Charlie retorted hastily.
“We need a transcript of the call.” Nick remarked, recalling his training.
“This isn’t our first case, detective,” Charlie responded sarcastically, then impatiently continued, “Council records indicate the flat as being occupied by a Syrian family. But they moved out 3 months ago. Since then witnesses claim they’ve seen a young Islamic male aged in his early twenties, coming and going occasionally with the victim. The words resonated with Nick, whose attention became instantly aroused.
“Early twenties?” Nick inquired.
“That’s what they claim,” Charlie answered becoming irritated by Nick’s interruptions.
“Victim?” Nick exclaimed, suddenly aware of Charlie’s annoyance. Charlie exhaled in a pronounced huff and pushed through in to the flat’s bedroom.
The bedroom had last seen decoration in the seventies when it had last had occupants who had regarded it as a permanent home. Nick studied the room with fastidious care and attention scanning the peeling wallpaper, worn carpet thread and yellowing paint-work. It was meagrely furnished, with a contrite bed, wardrobe and dressing table that served as adequate comforts. Two of Charlie’s men continued to process the scene, one sloppily dusting the fur
niture for finger prints and the other photographing the evidence.
Nick settled his gaze on the bed at the middle of the room. Cocooned in several layers of white sheets, lay the body of a woman.
Nick began his survey at the base of the bed, with her feet. They were small, pedicured and soft with delicate toes that seem to suggest that she had only worn expensive elegant shoes. His eyes followed her form, absorbing her sumptuous curves, up along her olive coloured calves to the back of her knees. The middle of her body was wrapped in luxurious white sheets that seemed alien in such an environment and more suited to palatial settings. Nick completed his survey at the top of her head, which was buried face down in the bosom of forgiving pillows and blood-soaked sheets that enshrouded her in an aura of death.
“Victim is a twenty-five-year-old Muslim woman, but no positive I-D yet,” Charlie continued as Nick seemed engrossed by the body.
“Local?” Nick inquired.
“No. Neighbours claim they don’t know who she is, only that they saw her come and go with the possible suspect.”
Nick looked at the body once more and a feeling of sadness descended over him as the brutality of the scene dawned on him. He remembered his training – to keep emotion at bay and remain focused to the profession. But fatigue had begun to take its toll and the fate of this nameless victim seemed to pierce his invulnerable exterior. He turned his attention to her once more, moving in close and placing his hand on the bed. Then he extended his fingers and touched the skin of the corpse. Something stirred within him. Something was different here. This lifeless corpse spoke to him as if she was still alive with oxygen and blood coursing through her veins.
Nick hastily removed his hand from her, focusing back on his investigation, scouring the rest of the crime scene. He removed a pen and gently inspected her clothing as it lay neatly placed on the dressing table. Then, contrary to protocol, he stroked the victim’s clothing and the smooth texture evoked a sense of who she was. Across the room in a corner stood a solitary shoe. Nick slowly moved over to it and knelt down inspecting it, noting its brand. Beside the shoe, blood was splattered across the wall and wardrobe. Nick peered inside the wardrobe, carefully holding the handle with his sleeves. Inside was an arrangement of cheap second-hand clothing – all men’s. On the floor, beside the wardrobe lay an ominous black granite block with an elaborate Islamic inscription carved into it. Along the edge and corner, dried blood and mottled hair clung to it.
“Blunt force trauma?” Nick asked, pivoting his head up to Charlie as he spoke.
“And the inscription?” Charlie enquired.
“Islam is a mercy. If you see the opposite – cruelty. Then it is not Islam,” Nick read, much to the surprise of Charlie and the two forensic officers.
“I remember seeing it as a child,” Nick said coyly, as Charlie rolled his eyes in disinterest.
“What do you think?” Charlie questioned attempting to test the young detective. Nick stared back at Charlie and the officers realising that they were sizing his knowledge up. Nick took a deep breath and looked around the room once more, finalising his impressions.
“She was killed over here and then moved to the bed. She was dressed at the time of the murder. The killer confronted her, there was a struggle and she was struck…to the left side of her temple. But she didn’t die straight away,” Nick delivered confidently, animatedly prancing about the room.
“The killer had to strike her again, this time to the back of the head, and that was the fatal blow. She’s a stranger to these parts, judging by her clothing and shoes – all expensive. She’s used to a life of pampering.”
Nick moved in closer to the victim, almost as if he was talking to her disconnected soul beyond the heavens. Charlie and the officers remained intrigued at Nick’s natural prowess for deduction.
“She knew her killer. No forced entry and she didn’t run, she stood up to him. He took time to undress her and wrap her in the sheets, face down so he didn’t have to face her, showing us, he felt some remorse, shame even,” Nick continued. “The killer was trying to make a statement.”
“Jealousy? Boyfriend or husband perhaps,” Charlie intimated, trying not to let Nick claim all the limelight.
“Boyfriend maybe. She doesn’t look like she would marry into this life,” Nick claimed quietly.
“Bound to be fluids. Let’s turn her around,” Charlie declared bluntly.
Nick moved slightly out of the way as the two Forensic Officers shifted in over the bed and placed their strong arms under the lifeless body of the victim. Then with surprising care they gently turned the body around revelling her face. Nick’s curiosity was at fever pitch as he sought to place a face to his diligently crafted deductions. Slowly he moved in with a mild excitement, focusing on her unveiled face as the two burly officers retreated after their menial task.
Her head had gently slid to one side as one arm lay trapped underneath it. The other folded over casually resting over chest almost as if she were alive and leisurely turned over from topless sunbathing, nonchalantly covering her rounded full bosom and concealing her small pert light brown nipples. Her eyes had remained open. They were translucent white with dark, soulful centres, which seemed to stare hauntingly back at the occupants of the room. For all who stared back at her time was frozen, as if she held them in the beguiling spell with those eyes that seem to mesmerise and tell a story. A story of tragedy and pain painted in lurid oils of beauty and grace.
Nick glimpsed her face just as the forensic officer flashed a series of shots, bathing the room in an electric blue. With each successive flash, the shock and awe of the scene sent a current of cold shivers through his spine. It seemed like a dream that quickly graduated into a horror. His breathing seemed to stop as the shock permeated and began to freeze the function of his body, emotion and thought. All he could see before him was her face transfixed and locked in a steely exchange. The cold professional execution with which he had dissected her livelihood had come crashing to the floor, lying alongside the same pool of blood in the carpet. He fell to his knees as the will was exiled from his body. She was more than a faceless victim now. The memories of everything that she meant to him came flooding back like an unwelcome spectre, reclaiming his deflated heart. He had known so much of her in life and now here she lay – dead.
“You know her?” Charlie asked gravely.
Nick’s head sunk, trying to hold back emotion and regain his composure. He looked at her lost in her helpless gaze staring at a Gold Heart Locket chain around her neck, that held so much meaning for him.
“Khan. Her name is Adilaah Khan,” Nick announced bleakly.
4
Nick sat huddled on a solid upholstered wooden bench in the busy office hallway. He slouched awkwardly across its uncomfortable solid frame watching as the officers and clerical staff went about their business, criss-crossing him on their morning errands. To him their streaks of movement resembled rough broad-brush strokes on an uneven canvas. His head was drenched in furtive thoughts of the last twenty-four hours. He had had little sleep and his body struggled under the heavy burden of fatigue. But his physical state didn’t affect him. He was too consumed by the haunting images of Adilaah Khan. He closed his eyes momentarily and his thoughts evacuated into a blackness, thick and consuming. Memories of Adilaah’s illuminated form permeated the black fog, and immediately he was transported back to her. They felt so strong. So real. In this etheric world he reached out and touched her, laying his hand gently on her soft delicate olive skin, caressing her as he felt the warmth of blood and life coursing through her body, not the vacant corpse he witnessed only hours earlier. Her face drifted up in front of his, and he was so close to her he could touch it. An old and dormant feeling enveloped him like a familiar heavy quilt. Nick accepted it, unable to fight the feeling.
Beams of liberating sunlight filtered through the large windows bathing Nick’s meditative state and as the energising glow of orange illuminated him, he opened his eyes,
returning to the office hallway and temporarily exorcising the lingering ghost of Adilaah.
“Congratulations on your promotion,” Nick heard the words as he sat up noticing that Miles had taken an overbearing position over him.
“Thanks,” Nick muttered as he thoroughly composed himself to a more professional standing.
“Long night?” Miles probed somewhat condescendingly, gazing over his anguished demeanour.
“You could say that,” Nick replied humbly, avoiding the direct gaze that Miles had employed, ironing out the creases in his sloppy attire.
“Running before you can walk, aren’t you?” Miles offered, as Nick looked perplexed, but too exhausted to take any offence.
“The Khan murder?” Miles tested, “The Superintendent has seemingly great aspirations for you.”
“I’m sure,” Nick answered, suddenly aware that Miles had an agenda.
“There’s only one problem though…” Miles retorted quickly, “When those aspirations get in the way of what we do here.”
Nick froze his gaze on Mile’s accusatory stare, feeling the cold weight of his tone.
“Serving the law,” Miles finished.
Further down the hall, McNeil appeared in front of his office door and caught sight of the exchange between Miles and Nick. The two men turned to face him, Miles relishing the exchange as an opportunity to instil doubt in McNeill’s perceptions.
“Remember my door is always open,” Miles quipped before retreated from Nick, and walking in the direction of McNeil.
“Superintendent,” Miles uttered a cursory greeting at McNeil as he passed by. “Miles,” McNeil muttered distastefully, barely acknowledging the man.
Miles’ words resonated with Nick as he realised that he may have misjudged Miles’ intentions. All this time he had believed that Miles had concocted some kind of misplaced vendetta against the young detective, perhaps because he distrusted the speed and circum-stance in his rise through the ranks. Indeed, he had known Miles for having a by the book reputation that did not always sit well with most of the people in Scotland Yard, but it was a respected reputation nevertheless, one that was earned diligently, even though they did not exactly see eye to eye. Nick now felt as though the Prosecutor was trying to throw him a life-line and not see him drown without one. Although at that moment he couldn’t trust the conflicting and opposing thoughts going through his mind.
A Time Honoured Killing Page 3