The DI Rosalind Kray Series: books 1-3

by Rob Ashman

He worked the key into the lock, using the light from the car, and gave it a twist. It wouldn’t budge. He turned the key again but nothing happened.

  ‘Here, let me.’ Tavener eased Walsh out of the way and gripped the lock in one hand and the key in the other, he worked it back and forth, his biceps bulging under his jacket. There was a loud click and the hasp sprung open. ‘We’re in.’

  Tavener unthreaded the bulky chain from around one of the gates, put his shoulder to the steelwork, and the gate swung open. All three of them walked in.

  Kray shone her torch onto the ground in the hope of picking up tyre tracks but the place was awash in them. ‘How long has it been since there was any work done here?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t know. Maybe twelve months.’

  ‘Did he get bored with it?’ Tavener asked.

  ‘Maybe, I don’t know.’ Walsh had mud on the trousers of his seven-hundred-pound suit, not to mention his light grey coloured jacket was fast resembling a dish cloth. The dark shadows of three shipping containers loomed large against the far fence. As they approached, Kray could make out the corrugated steel walls and faded red paintwork of the metal structures.

  ‘What do you keep in those?’ Tavener asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Walsh said. ‘I’ve never been here before.’

  The dirt track ran out to be replaced by a furrowed expanse of ground. Puddles of water reflected white in the torchlight, the rain making the surfaces dance. They reached the first container. Tavener yanked on the handle and heaved the door towards him. Kray shone her torch into the void. It was empty.

  The second container was ten feet away to the left. This one had a padlock securing the handle in place. Tavener looked around and found a metal bar lying propped up against the fence. He picked it up.

  ‘Give me some light over here Roz.’

  Kray shone her torch onto the lock. Tavener took aim and brought the bar down hard. It bounced off. He swung it again and with a loud crack the lock jumped open. He fed the hasp back through the handle and pulled it open. The levers disengaged and the door opened up.

  All three of them peered inside. There, in the darkness, was the unmistakeable shape of the back of a car. Kray scanned it with her torch.

  ‘A blue F type Jag,’ Tavener said.

  ‘Holy shit,’ said Walsh.

  While Walsh was nailed to the spot, transfixed by the car, Kray and Tavener ran across to the final container. It, too, was locked with a padlock. Tavener broke it open with a single blow and Kray tugged at the mechanism with all her might. The door cracked open and the stench knocked them backwards. Tavener stepped away coughing into his hand while Kray continued to lean all her weight against the door.

  The torchlight landed on the decomposing white flesh of a man’s naked body suspended upside down from a hook in the ceiling. Parts of his skin were hanging away from his limbs. To the side was a large plastic pot that used to hold paint, now it was brimmed full with a congealed black fluid. The man’s hands were tied behind his back and his bloodshot eyes stared straight ahead. The rest of the container was empty.

  Walsh appeared at the door and retched down his front.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Tavener.

  Kray shook a handkerchief from her pocket and clamped it to her nose and mouth. She walked over to the body. He was still wearing his socks. She pointed to them and Tavener reached up and removed the right one. Kray shone the torch beam onto the dead man’s foot. The big toe was missing.

  ‘You were right, Roz.’

  ‘Yeah, I fucking wish I wasn’t. You call it in and I’ll get Walsh back to the car and secure the area.’ Kray gripped Walsh by the elbow and walked him across the open ground to the gates. He seemed far less worried about the condition of his suit.

  ‘Was that Nigel Chapman?’ she asked.

  Walsh nodded and retched onto the wet ground. Kray handed him her handkerchief.

  She put him into the passenger seat and closed the door.

  In the headlights, she could see a large sign bolted to the fence. It depicted an artist’s impression of what the site was going to look like. The title across the top said: Project Market Garden.

  The verse played over and over in Kray’s head.

  This little piggy went to market…

  Chapter 20

  I can’t sleep. I’ve got to be up early in the morning but the night won’t let me rest. I want to say it’s because I’m still on a massive high, but I’m not. I have a blinding headache and have popped a couple of tablets but to no effect. The numbness in my fingers has gone only to be replaced with an odd sensation in my legs. I ache all over.

  Dark thoughts occupy my mind, crowding out the celebrations. I cannot stop them invading my space. The demons that heralded my decline are all around me, and despite the ecstatic events of the day, all I can think about is how my life crumbled away beneath my feet.

  After my catastrophic encounter with Sadie at the house and the resulting trip to the police station, I recall being invigorated with a renewed determination to pull myself together. She didn’t want to press charges but getting myself in trouble with the law so quickly after being issued with a caution was not good.

  I decided that the best thing I could do to get myself back on my feet was to get more money. And for that I didn’t need to get a new job, I simply needed my old job back. So, I put on a work suit, a shirt with a collar and a pair of shoes that weren’t done up by Velcro and went off to see my old business buddy John Graham.

  I drove to his house and parked on the drive. It was a modest three bed semi that John had lived in since he married Miriam. John obviously had the same risk-averse mentality when it came to houses as he did with the business. I saw the curtain twitch as I drew up and got out. I rang the doorbell, conscious that my suit was hanging off my bones due to the amount of weight I’d lost. I pulled it tight around my waist to mimic a good fit.

  Miriam opened the door. I hadn’t seen her since that evening at the New Year’s Eve party, and the woman who stood before me in her pink slippers did not look well. I wasn’t sure how much weight I’d lost but double it, and that was how Miriam looked.

  ‘Kevin, how lovely to see you.’ She reached across the threshold and threw her arms around my neck. I wrapped mine across her back, feeling her ribs and backbone prominent beneath her clothing. ‘Come in, come in,’ she chimed.

  I stepped into the hallway and felt the warmth of the house hugging me.

  ‘John is in his study. John! John!’ she called, ‘Kevin’s here!’

  There was a scuffling sound upstairs and John’s face appeared at the top of the landing.

  ‘Well, I’ll be…’ John scampered down the stairs and shook my hand. ‘Good to see you, mate, we’ve been so worried. Come in, come in.’

  He led me into the lounge, a place I had visited maybe half a dozen times before. It always looked the same as it always had. Miriam patted the sofa next to her. I took a seat.

  ‘How have you been?’ she asked. Though I think my general appearance told them precisely how I’d been.

  ‘Oh, you know…’ I left it at that.

  ‘We could not believe it when we heard about you and Sadie. I mean, what ever got into her.’

  More cocks than a Bernard Mathews’ farmyard.

  Miriam flashed an awkward smile at John, who raised his eyebrows. There was something in the air that made me feel uneasy.

  ‘I know, I don’t understand it either,’ I said, holding my hands up. ‘I’m living in a bedsit across town.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good,’ John said, instantly regretted the insensitivity of his remark. The pause that followed was soaked with awkwardness. Miriam kept looking at John, then staring into her lap. It was like I had interrupted something important.

  Eventually, Miriam could stand it no longer. ‘Let me put the kettle on. I’m sure you boys have lots to catch up on.’ She limped off to the kitchen.

  ‘Miriam doesn’t look so good,’ I said. />
  ‘No, she’s not,’ replied John. ‘We are waiting for test results to come back from the hospital but I gotta say, Kev, I’m worried.’

  ‘Yeah, I bet. Fingers crossed, eh?’

  ‘It’s great to see you,’ John blurted out, needing to avoid another awkward silence.

  ‘This is not just a social visit, John. I want to come back into the business. I want my old job back.’

  John sat back in his chair and fixed me with the same face he did when I wanted him to chase bigger contracts. He nodded his head and stroked his chin.

  ‘Not sure it’s as straightforward as that, Kev.’

  ‘Why? Why not?’

  ‘Everyone knows what Sadie did and everyone knows what she’s doing now. The problem is, she did it with the boss of the biggest contracts supplier around here. If you came back…well, you know.’

  ‘No, John, no I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s all about corporate risk, John…the good name of the company. I’m not sure they would take kindly to you being back in the saddle.’

  ‘So, this is not about what Sadie did, it’s about what I’ve done. Is that it?’

  ‘People can be funny about that sort of thing. They know you’ve been sleeping rough and that you’re on the bones of your arse. They are not going to place a contract with someone like that.’

  ‘Fuck, John.’ I tried to keep my voice down. ‘Are you saying there is no longer a position for me in the business?’

  John looked at me without an ounce of pity in his watery eyes. ‘Yeah, I suppose that’s what I’m saying.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, I thought you of all people would be on my side.’

  ‘I am on your side, Kev, but you were the one who pissed off, leaving us in the lurch. You were the one who left me juggling so many contracts I didn’t know what day of the week it was. You were the one who would rather chase pigeons in the fucking park with a can of special brew in your hand. Not me. Okay?’ He put both hands on his knees to steady himself. It looked like he’d waited a long time to get that little speech off his chest.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I am a share holder in the business,’ I said quietly, trying to take the tension down a notch.

  ‘Yes, a minority share-holder.’

  Again, I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘You want me out, is that it?’

  ‘I’ll give you a fair price for your slice of the business. You could do with an injection of cash, so as I see it this is the best option for both of us.’

  ‘But it’s not the best option for me.’

  ‘Well, it’s the only fucking one you got.’ He rose from his chair and left the room. Moments later, he returned with a sheaf of paper in his hand.

  ‘Here, the severance terms are set out in the documentation.’ The top copy looked official, I recognised the letter head of a local branch of solicitors emblazoned across the top. I flicked through it. ‘I was going to come and see you, but as you’ve come here, then…’ John let the sentence die away to nothing.

  I continued to flick over the pages.

  ‘That’s not enough,’ I said, finally reaching the punchline figure.

  ‘It’s a fair offer.’

  ‘That’s not fair, John. It’s only slightly more than I put into the business in the first place. That was when the company was tiny. Now, it’s much bigger. My share is worth more than this.’

  ‘It’s more than fair, considering how you dropped us in it. It’s a take it or leave it deal, Kev. A full and final offer.’

  ‘Come on, John, be reasonable. I put my life into that business.’

  ‘Take it or leave it.’ He leaned forward with his arm extended. In his hand he held a gold pen. I recognised it as the one I bought him when we landed our first big contract. I wondered if he realised.

  ‘John,’ I whispered.

  He moved to the edge of his seat, bringing the pen closer to me. I took it from his grasp, folded the relevant page over and signed. He gestured with his open hand that he wanted his pen back. I dropped it onto the carpet, stood up and let myself out.

  I peered through the lounge window to see Miriam come hobbling into the lounge and hugging her husband. She wasn’t carrying any cups. Apparently, there was never going to be coffee.

  I sat in the car for ages, not knowing what to do. They drew the curtains as if to shut out what they had done. The clock on the dashboard ticked away the time. With every minute, a fuming knot of anger grew in my stomach. I slammed my hands against the steering wheel and yelled out. No words, just a primal scream of rage. The fury of the past few months bubbled over. I flipped out.

  I hurled myself out of the car and down his drive, banging on the front door. John opened it with Miriam peering over his shoulder.

  ‘You can’t do this to me, John.’ I barged past him.

  ‘Now look here, Kev–’ he protested. I wasn’t listening.

  ‘I put my heart and soul into that business and that offer is an insult. A fucking insult.’

  ‘Watch your language and get out of my house.’

  ‘I want a proper settlement. I want something that reflects the hard work I put into making the company a success.’

  ‘Get out of my house!’ he yelled. Miriam screeched in support. John made a grab for my arm. I shoved him back and he toppled up the stairs.

  ‘I want my money, John,’ I shouted.

  ‘Kevin, stop, you’ve hurt him,’ Miriam screeched.

  ‘Where is it John? Where is the document I signed?’ I lurched to the right into the lounge, scanning around. The document wasn’t there. I bounded past John, up the stairs. Miriam saw her chance. She dashed to the other room to find the phone.

  I was like a mad man pulling drawers out of cabinets and throwing paperwork onto the floor. John appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Get out of my house!’ he yelled and flung himself at me. I stepped to one side and he clattered to the floor. He lay there groaning.

  Miriam came at me from nowhere, banging her tiny fists down onto my shoulder.

  ‘Get away from him, get away,’ she screamed.

  I pushed her away and went downstairs. Where the fuck has he hidden it? I went into the kitchen and emptied pots, pans and cutlery onto the floor. Then, for the second time that week, the sound of sirens pierced the night.

  Chapter 21

  The one thing to say about prison time is the fact that there’s nothing to do but think. The monotonous parade of activities means you don’t have to waste valuable head-time working out everyday stuff, like…when’s lunch? What time is dinner? What am I going to do today? All of that is taken care of. You wake in the morning and step aboard a conveyor that transports you through the day, ensuring you are deposited back into your bed at the end of it.

  My lawyer had pleaded that if I was to receive a custodial sentence it should be at a local jail. I had two young children and a wife, and it made sense to keep the disruption to their family life at a minimum. I was duly sent down and bundled off to Wymott prison, a category C establishment with more drugs in it than a Boots pharmacy. It was as local as they could get. My wife never visited once. She chose instead to cement her view with the kids that Daddy was a bad thing, and at least now she didn’t have to bother with the niceties of working out visitation rights. That ship had well and truly sailed.

  I had three priorities while serving my time – to keep myself to myself, keep myself fit and keep on thinking. After all, I had a lot to think about. The fury that had engulfed me had no place in prison. Being angry in a place that already contained more than a thousand angry men would get me killed. I channelled that anger into something positive, something creative. Each night, I would run through the priority checklist in my head. Every night, it was a full house of three ticks.

  My thoughts were a collection of plans; each one ran like a movie in my head as I plotted how they would be carried out. Working through the intricacies of what would happen kept my brain occ
upied and it helped the time to pass quickly. Nothing could be left to chance, everything was scheduled down to the last detail. However, I had given myself a challenging constraint – I was not allowed to write anything down. Every detail had to be committed to memory. Keeping a permanent record would have been a rookie mistake.

  But there was one piece missing. One gaping hole. In many ways, it was the most important part, but I kept telling myself not to worry – it would come, eventually. After all, I was not exactly short of time in which to work it out. But it bothered me that the most significant part was missing.

  My cell mate’s name was Irvine. The rest of the wing called him Berlin. He didn’t seem to care. They called me Pablo Escobar because I refused to do drugs. Enduring prison humour was a deep joy.

  Irvine was a black monster of a man from Birmingham. He was a bloke of few words and those he did manage to utter were mangled beyond recognition by a chronic speech impediment. Chatting with Irvine was like predictive text in reverse. I had to figure out what he was trying to say, because on most occasions, he never got to the end. I got pretty good at it but like the real predictive text, sometimes I got it very wrong.

  Irvine had the same outlook to doing time as I did, except his priorities were different. His priorities were lifting weights, lifting more weights, lifting heavier weights. He didn’t have to worry with the “keep himself to himself” priority, because no one went near him. His reluctance to speak was seen as a smouldering attitude of “fuck off or I’ll rip your head from your neck”, which people did without ever being told.

  He occupied the bottom bunk, which was fine. At least that way I rested easy knowing that twenty-two stones of prime beef would not come crashing down on me in the night. In fact, Irvine was as meek a man as I have ever met, kind and generous. Which was completely at odds with the horror stories another inmate told me about my new best friend.

  In a previous life, Irvine had been a gangland enforcer, capable of the most ferocious violence which could be inflicted at the flick of a switch. He had a close call when a punishment beating went too far, and the man died. Irvine had an alibi that held up, however the other guy alongside him dishing out the kicking hadn’t fared as well and was banged up for nine years. Irvine saw the writing on the wall and left Birmingham to settle in Manchester. He worked security for pubs and clubs in the city centre and kept away from trouble. That was until a disastrous stop and search resulted in him throwing a police officer through a shop front window.