by Rob Ashman
He barked out a long drinks order in a deep baritone voice that suited his Pavarotti physique. A hassled barmaid ignored him and continued serving the guy next in line. Julie began to dance on the spot waving her arms above her head and throwing her head from side to side. Her hat fell off revealing her long blonde locks as they tumbled around her shoulders. A few of the others joined in, Kail wobbled and bobbed his broad shoulders to the thumping beat beside her. Julie always had the ability to start a disco in the vegetables aisle in Tesco.
Kail turned his attentions back to the poor barmaid, who was trying to look at anyone but him.
‘Over here, sweet cheeks, over here,’ he yelled out.
She finally gave in and Kail bawled his order at her. Pints of beer, glasses of wine and gin cocktails were shuttled back to the waiting party-goers. He handed Julie a fish bowl full of gin and something-or-other. I can remember thinking, she doesn’t even like the stuff.
I watched from the other side of the room, keeping myself obscured by the punters at the bar. The place pulsated to festive songs, everyone singing along.
How am I going to get out of here without being seen?
The thought rattled around in my head as I stared into the full pint in front of me. The bubbles rose through the glass saying, ‘Drink me.’
But I need to go now before she spots me. An awkward meeting with Julie was not what I wanted right now.
Hmmm … maybe I could keep myself hidden in the crowd for another few minutes. Just enough time to make this pint disappear. A big mistake.
Try as I might, I couldn’t help but glance across at Julie and her workmates. She was hands down the most beautiful woman in the room but she looked different to how I remembered. Her hair was the same and I had seen that dress before, but somehow she looked different. Then it hit me – she looked happy.
She wasn’t trying to cover up the latest bruise by constantly applying make-up or walking on eggshells frightened of saying the wrong thing. She was being herself – happy and getting drunk on a Christmas night out. She was being Julie, the woman I had fallen for before I went away.
I felt a physical pain strike up in my stomach, quickly rising towards my chest. My heart raced. I spun a beer mat on the bar to distract myself. The mat spun faster and faster. The music sank into the background, drowned out by the sound of water rushing through my head. The mat flipped onto the floor. I stared at it by my feet.
There was a commotion at the far end, Kail was yelling at the barmaid. At first, I thought he was ordering another round then I saw him thrust his pint into her hand.
‘And I’m telling you it’s off!’ he bellowed.
The young woman busied herself pouring another and handed it to him.
‘So is this!’ he roared. The woman didn’t know what to do.
‘Fuck me, a pub that can’t pour a pint,’ he crowed at the top of his voice.
The manager appeared and tried to calm the situation. Kail was animated, stabbing his fat finger across the bar at the woman. The manager held his hands in a sign of surrender. It all calmed down. Next, I saw the manager hand over a tray loaded with shot glasses to Kail, while mouthing the words ‘Sorry, sir.’
Kail forced himself away from the bar with a full pint in one hand and the tray in the other. He weaved his way to where Julie and the others were jigging around to the cacophony of noise blasting from the speakers.
‘Oh yes!’ Kail announced. ‘What did I tell you? Who’s the daddy!’
I chugged down half my pint trying to drown the pain in my chest. The bastard had set that stunt up to get free drinks. What a wanker.
‘I told you. Now who’s the daddy, who’s the daddy?’ Kail was rotating on the spot doling out the shots.
‘You’re the daddy, you’re the daddy,’ they chanted back, pointing at him.
He was accepting the adulation while strutting around doing some kind of gangster-rap walk. Julie was pointing and singing along with the others, downing the liquor.
She doesn’t like shots either.
The knuckles on my left hand turned white as I gripped the rail running around the bar. I wanted to finish my drink but my other hand couldn’t lift the glass. I was frozen. The pop-pop-pop of small arms fire went off in my head. My heart felt like it would rip itself from my chest at any moment.
The heat from the exploding IED roasted the back of my legs. I could taste sand in my mouth. I tore the glass from the bar and the rim clunked against my front teeth as I poured the remaining beer down my throat. I banged the pint pot back down making the woman next to me jump.
Bang-bang-bang, the exploding rounds were getting closer. I could hear them whistling through the air. Jono was screaming, but I couldn’t find him. I scanned the faces of the people around me but none of them were Jono. Then there was a dull thud and the Snatch went airborne, the whole pub spun on its axis.
I couldn’t breathe.
The side window shattered, spraying me with glass. Sand clogged my mouth, choking the back of my throat. I had to get out.
I looked around for my weapon. It wasn’t there. Where the fuck is it?
I had to get out.
Crouching down I bumped my way through the crowd and shot one last look across at Julie. I saw Kail break away from the group.
‘You’re the daddy, you’re the daddy.’ They continued to chant.
He strutted away in triumph with his hands above his head. I tracked around the periphery of the room, watching him disappear through the door marked toilets.
I couldn’t help myself.
Twenty seconds later I burst through the same door and followed him down the tiled corridor, past the Ladies, into the Gents. He was standing at the urinal with his hands on his hips, a couple of blokes were also in there finishing off. I made a beeline for one of the stalls and locked the door behind me.
Gunfire was all around. The wall behind me was peppered with bullets, showering me with shards of plaster. I peeped under the door to see two pairs of legs leave and the door banged shut behind them.
I unlocked the door and launched myself at Kail who had his head tilted back, still pissing like a race horse.
I slammed the heel of my hand into the back of his head and a loud crack echoed around the room as his forehead smashed into the wall. I grabbed a handful of hair and drove his face into the tiles. A plume of blood erupted across the white surface as his nose splatted flat against his cheek. I sunk my fist into his lower back, he gargled a cry of pain and slumped forwards.
I kicked his legs from under him and he went down hard, still pissing digested lager into the air. I slammed my boot into his neck and then his face. The flow of piss stopped. He went still.
‘Incoming! Incoming!’ cried Jono.
Where the fuck is he, I can hear him but I can’t see him?
I ducked down and scurried to the door, crabbing my way back up the corridor. Mortar fire thundered all around me. I couldn’t breathe. I burst into the main room, hurried through the knots of people and fell out onto the pavement.
One of the bouncers came over. ‘You all right, mate?’
I held up my hand, bent over at the waist trying to suck air into my burning lungs. ‘Asthma,’ I croaked.
‘Do you need an ambulance?’
Cold air hit the bottom of my lungs and I straightened up.
‘No. No I’m fine thanks.’
I shoved my hands in my pockets and marched away. The freezing wind slapped me in the face and it felt good. For the first time in ages the dead space inside me had gone. It had been replaced by a feeling that I had not known in months.
The feeling of excitement.
The feeling of being alive.
Chapter 20
Kray made her way up the steps dressed in a white coverall, sporting overshoes and gloves. The hallway was a patchwork quilt of silver checker plates stretching down the hallway and into the lounge. She was met at the top by a tall man with spectacles dressed in much the same way.
‘Morning,’ he said with clipped tones. ‘Jerry Atkins, crime scene supervisor.’
‘Morning, Jerry, I’m DI Roz Kray. Who called it in?’
‘The letting agent turned up with a young couple to view the property. They got more of a view than they bargained for.’
‘That bad?’
‘Well, let’s say I don’t think he’ll be letting it to them.’
‘The call said there was a body in the bath. Is it suicide?’
‘Best you see for yourself. I’ve asked the forensics team to hold off until you arrived. Thought it would be good for you to take a look before we moved the body.’ Two paper boiler suited figures were chatting in the hallway, ready with their boxes of tricks and high-resolution cameras.
They stepped to one side allowing Kray to pass.
‘Phew, is that what I think it is?’ she said wrinkling her nose. ‘Smells like chicken tikka masala and bleach.’
‘In here, Roz.’ Atkins motioned with his arm at the room leading off to the left.
Kray edged open the door. Against the far wall was the bathtub with a shower cubical and toilet fitted to the adjacent wall. A large mirror hung above the sink.
The bath was brim full with crimson water. Puddles of it lay on the floor, visible between the silver plates. Kray moved closer. The body of a man was lying face down, half submerged, with his arms secured behind his back and his lower legs standing proud of the water against the taps. Bleach fumes rasped at the back of Kray’s throat.
She flicked on her torch and directed the beam at the surface of the water. The light penetrated the liquid to show the pale outline of two objects floating inches below the surface. She leaned over and peered at the illuminated shape.
It was the victim’s severed hands.
‘Shit.’
‘Yes, that’s what we thought,’ said Atkins. ‘We’ll know more when we remove the body.’
‘I guess that rules out suicide. What else have you got?’
‘The killer didn’t do his homework when selecting what bleach to use.’
‘Oh, how come?’
‘There are two types of bleach, one containing chlorine and the other containing oxygen. Oxygen bleach destroys bloodstains and DNA making them undetectable, chlorine-based products remove the stain to the human eye but the presence of haemoglobin can still be detected with an application of Luminol. Then it shows up under black light.’
‘And what did our guy use?’
‘He used a chlorine-based product. So, if he wanted to destroy any DNA evidence, he chose the wrong one. A simple Internet search would have told him that. Also, we found bleach-stained footprints in the carpet in the hallway, and it didn’t come from the victim’s shoes. We should be able to get a decent shoe print. He goes to all this trouble to cover his tracks then gets careless.’
‘Thanks for that. I’ll get out of your way.’ Kray retreated back out into the hall and the two men in boiler suits swooped in. She checked the front door. The lock was intact with no sign of forced entry. Kray made her way to the lounge when she heard a familiar booming voice.
‘How is Acting DCI Kray this morning?’ It was Mitch Holbrook, Kray’s favourite Coroner’s Office doctor, coming up the stairs. He was approaching fifty with a bald head and straining waistline. He was old school and well respected. Very business like and abrupt to the point of being rude, just the way Kray liked it. He always wore the facial expression of somebody who had just stepped in dog shit, this morning was no exception.
‘Hey, Mitch, how’s tricks?’
‘Pretty good, I hear this one is a bit different,’ he said adjusting his overshoes.
‘Yup you could say that.’
‘When are they going to appoint a new DCI?’
‘They already have.’
‘Wow! Congrat—’
‘It’s not me, Mitch, they gave it to a guy from GMP.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Mitch paused realising he’d brought up a topic Kray would rather avoid.
The silence between them was broken by the swoosh of water as the body was exhumed from its watery grave.
‘I think that’s my cue to start work,’ he said easing his way past her in the hall.
Kray wandered into the bedroom, opening and closing drawers and wardrobes. They were empty. It was the same with the smaller bedroom. She entered the lounge, the place was scrupulously clean with not a thing out of place. Apart from the Sky box laying in the middle of the rug. The morning sunshine streaked through the windows, ensuring the room was light and airy.
A small discolouration of the carpet at the base of the doorframe caught her eye. She crouched down and examined it. Despite the overall stink there was a strong scent of bleach coming from the floor. Kray went into the bathroom to find Mitch hunched over the body which was laying on a heavy plastic sheet on the floor.
‘Do you have a black light?’ she asked.
One of the men dressed in white handed Kray a torch from his bag. She went back to the lounge and shone the beam onto the base of the doorframe. Splashes of liquid fluoresced on the wooden frame and the carpet.
Why did you bleach the bottom of the doorframe? She thought. What else did you bleach?
She closed the curtains and continued to scan the room with the lamp. It yielded nothing until she directed the beam onto the armchair. The cushions glowed under the lamp, the other items of furniture were clear.
Did you sit here?
She ran the light across the fabric picking out the florescent particles on the arms of the chair.
Why did you sit here? Were you waiting?
‘Roz!’ It was Mitch calling from the bathroom. ‘You might want to see this.’
She broke her train of thought and went to join him.
Mitch was kneeling by the side of the body. ‘The vic sustained several blows to the side of the head but it is unlikely that’s what killed him. More likely he bled to death.’ He held up an evidence bag containing one of the severed hands. ‘We will know more when they do the post-mortem.’
Kray stared down at the translucent face. ‘My word, it’s Billy Hicks.’
‘You know him?’
‘Most of the bloody force knows him. A one-man crime wave is our Billy. Did the killer cut off his hands when he was alive?’
‘I think so,’ said Atkins. ‘The cut marks are ragged suggesting the victim was struggling when his hands were severed.’
‘Do you have a time of death, Mitch?’ Kray continued.
‘Not with the body being immersed in cold water for so long. I need to do more tests.’
Kray turned to Atkins. ‘I found bleach on the base of the doorframe leading into the lounge, there might be blood spatter. I will leave that to you guys.’ She handed back the black light back to the SOCO. ‘Also check out the armchair, it has some sort of residue on it. It doesn’t appear on the other pieces of furniture, just the chair. It would be good to know what it is.’
Back in her car Kray stared into the distance, her mind churning over what she had seen in the flat. She could see the killer sitting in the armchair waiting for Hicks to arrive, she could see them fighting in the lounge and the killer emptying bottles of bleach into the bath.
You wanted to cover your tracks, then you leave dirty great footprints in the carpet.
Kray’s head was buzzing.
That’s not careless, it’s like you only did half a job.
Chapter 21
I am now faced with a dilemma. It is fast becoming obvious how this is going to pan out. My target is swinging on the handrail running along the bar in the Cat and Mouse, screeching like a banshee. She’s just been joined by three blokes who are pissing themselves laughing. One of them is scrawny like a recovering heroin addict, the second man is tall and gangly and the third is a pig ugly guy with a turn in his eye and a beer gut. It’s a little after four in the afternoon and she is nine pints down, her friends are catching up fast.
‘What’s the matter, B
iscuit, don’t you know this one?’ she yells across the bar, all four of them dissolve into gales of laughter. Biscuit ignores them and continues to sip his beer, staring into space. Sooner or later a song will come on and Biscuit will do his thing.
I have been coming here for two months, watching Biscuit do his thing is a sight to behold. He is probably early fifties and always wears the same battered parka coat and combat trousers. He carries a rucksack and sits on the same stool, feeding money into the jukebox mounted on the wall next to him.
Biscuit mimes to every song he puts on, but he doesn’t simply nod his head in time with the music like the rest of us. No, when Biscuit mimes a song he goes all out. Facial expressions, arm movements and occasionally slipping from his stool to spin on the spot, are all moves within his repertoire. Along with pointing at the ceiling in a Saturday Night Fever pose when the choreography demands it.
‘Don’t you know the fucking words, Biscuit?’ she yells at him again. Biscuit is somewhere else.
The truth is he doesn’t know the words. Many weeks ago, after one particularly lively rendition of Mustang Sally, the landlord told me that twenty years ago Biscuit used to play lead guitar and sing in a band. They did the clubs and were pretty good by all accounts. Then he suffered a stroke while on stage and his path to stardom ended. Nowadays he knows every word to every song that comes from his era but anything produced later than that fateful day he fell into the audience, skips his memory.
I asked the landlord, ‘why is he called Biscuit?’
‘No idea. Don’t think even he knows why.’
At last a song comes on that Biscuit knows and the show kicks off. It’s Sandy Shaw singing Long Live Love, the song where Biscuit likes to spin on the spot while miming the chorus. From his seated position, his facial expressions and wind-milling arms go into overdrive.