by Mayo, Simon
‘And they all helped me execute my colleagues, did they?’
‘One or more could have, yes. Like I said, that’s the theory. You have links to the Hussain brothers, dead and alive.’ She pointed to the photo. ‘And they have links to the dark side, all the names on that list. It’s all too much of a coincidence. You’re the link, Ms Madden.’
‘Except that I’m not,’ said Famie. ‘And Seth worked with human rights groups. All his life.’
‘But was in huge debt,’ said Hunter. ‘And guess who was in the process of paying off those debts?’
Famie felt her energy drain. ‘Our gangster slash community leader?’ she said.
Hunter nodded.
One more sheet. Seth’s bank statement. Crazy numbers in the credit column.
‘You might not have wanted them all dead,’ said Hunter, ‘but you sure had reason for getting rid of Seth Hussain and Mary Lawson. You hated them and wanted revenge. You set the wheels in motion, your underworld connections took it from there.’
Charlie snorted with derision. ‘Mum’s “underworld connections”? Can you actually hear yourself? The same contacts who tried to kill me then break into our flat?’
Hunter tried to focus again on Famie. ‘Ms Madden—’
‘Wait,’ interrupted Charlie, shouting now. ‘Do you mean those contacts?’
‘Charlie—’
‘Those contacts? Yes or no?’
‘It’s possible.’ Hunter didn’t sound convinced.
‘No it isn’t. It isn’t possible. And you know it.’
‘You’re a journalist,’ said Hunter to Famie, ‘you’d run the story.’ She checked her watch.
‘If I ran this story, I’d be sued for libel. I’m assuming it’s Milne that’s pushing this bullshit?’ Hunter looked awkward and Famie nodded. ‘Thought so. And I notice you didn’t answer Charlie’s question. What do you think of this “theory”?’ More mimed quotes.
A beat, then Espie pushed herself off the door. Checked her watch. ‘She thinks it’s bullshit too,’ she said. The sing-song rise and fall of a Birmingham accent.
‘Bingo,’ said Famie. ‘So we are doing this because …?’ She looked between Hunter and Espie.
Hunter paused only briefly. ‘Because we have our orders. Famie Madden, I’m arresting you for the murder of Mary Lawson, Seth Hussain, Harry Thomas, Sarah Thompson, Brian Hall, Sathnam Stanley and Anita Cross.’
Charlie was on her feet, screaming.
Famie started to laugh.
73
7.54 a.m.
TALBOT PULLED UP outside 26 Boxer Street. He’d killed the siren, kept the lights. Twenty metres ahead, a white delivery van had stopped in the middle of the road, hazard lights also flashing. A uniformed woman leapt from the cab. Brown skin, mid-thirties, hair tied high, sunglasses perched on her head. She approached the police car. Roberts and Talbot jumped out, pulled their caps on. She was talking already.
‘Done this for three years,’ she said. ‘I know what I’m doing, I’m here all the time. I had a dead woman last January. She’d fallen in the kitchen and when I was pushing the note through the door you could smell that something wasn’t right.’ She pulled on a vape, vast clouds of sweet-scented smoke billowing between them. ‘Straight out, like nothing I smelt before,’ she said. ‘Rotting meat and cheap perfume is what it was. Never smelt it again. Till just now.’ She pointed at number 26. ‘And that’s what’s coming from in there. No doubt about it. ‘’Swhy I called it in and ’swhy I’m smoking this shit.’ More clouds. ‘Doesn’t shift the taste much, if I’m honest.’
Roberts glanced at the front door.
‘You got all that just from the letterbox?’
She nodded. ‘So will you,’ she said, waving the vape in the direction of the front door of number 26. ‘Weather like this, doesn’t take long.’
Roberts and Talbot exchanged glances then looked again at the house. Terraced, bay windows top and bottom. Exactly the same as the rest of the street. Short-term renters and lazy, disinterested landlords had produced houses that were sagging and cracking under the weight of prolonged neglect. Number 26 wasn’t the worst by any means – its front door was at least intact and not graffiti’d – but the front garden was scruffy and some of the weeds were a metre high. The downstairs curtains were drawn. All the downstairs windows were shut, one small upstairs bathroom window was a notch on its metal catch.
Roberts walked to the door, rang the bell, rattled the knocker, then bent to the letterbox. Talbot snapped at his heels. Roberts pushed the steel flap open, peered inside. He saw that the hall was clear. Saw that there was nothing of anything that could be seen anywhere. But the delivery woman was right. The stench hit you immediately, rolling through the small hole in the door like it was an open bi-fold. Roberts recoiled.
‘Jesus that’s bad.’
Talbot stepped in. Stooped, gagged, stepped away. The delivery woman, leaning against her van, called to them both.
‘Can I go? Do I sign anything?’
‘We have your details,’ called Roberts. ‘And thank you.’ He raised a hand to his cap, waved her away.
The two men stepped back from the door. Roberts radioed that they were on the scene and that they were going in.
‘You got an enforcer?’ he said.
Talbot shook his head.
Roberts pulled at each of the downstairs windows, fingers around the frames. All locked. He put on his gloves, unclipped his baton, then smashed it through the bay window.
74
‘WHERE’S MILNE?’
‘Twenty minutes away.’
‘He sent you ahead?’
‘We were closer.’
‘You know this is bullshit.’
‘They weren’t my words.’
‘No, they were your partner’s.’
Famie and Charlie were still on the bed, Hunter was on the plastic chair with the cushion, Espie stood behind her. Charlie’s face was streaked with tears, roughly wiped away with the top of her T-shirt.
‘Why isn’t it Milne arresting me?’ said Famie. ‘I’m surprised he’s letting women do his glamorous work for him.’
‘He thought you’d run,’ said Espie.
Famie had her head in her hands. ‘You’d better pray that there are no attacks today because you can bet that every news agency, every paper, every website, every news channel in the world will have details of your incompetence. How you were told. And how you did nothing.’
The words hit home. It may have been Famie who was under arrest for seven murders but it was the policewomen who were on the defensive. She looked between Hunter and Espie, watched the body language. The upturned eyes, the flick of the head, the nods of encouragement. Then it clicked. She understood why Espie had seemed the bolder of the two women. A junior PC declaring a current police operation ‘bullshit’ was a woman confident of her position in the power dynamic of the room. These women weren’t just partners, they were partners.
Famie thought she might have fifteen minutes.
‘What does your instinct tell you, DC Hunter?’ she said. ‘Do you think you’ve got the right person arrested here? Did I also kill Tommi Dara? You missed him in your list. Maybe that was one of my “underworld connections”.’
‘I was ordered to arrest you. I arrested you.’
‘Oh DC Hunter. Please. Fuck your orders! Just for once! I know I’m an annoying, cocky nightmare to deal with but for fifteen minutes, just indulge me. I’m under arrest, I know that. I’m not going anywhere. You’ve done your job. But let’s park Milne’s crappy theory for a second. Were there any more photos where this came from? Because if that’s the most recent close-up photo of Amal I assume all your colleagues have it? At least the ones in Coventry?’
Hunter and Espie looked blank. ‘That wouldn’t be our job,’ said Espie.
‘Could it become your job?’ said Famie. ‘Just briefly?’
The PC sighed. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘To answer your questio
n,’ said Hunter, ‘we received the photo in the post.’
Famie frowned. ‘You “received” it?’
‘Milne got it. Passed it to me.’
‘Anonymous?’
Hunter spread her hands. Shrugged her shoulders.
‘That happen often?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘How cropped is it?’ said Charlie. ‘How many others in the original?’
‘Four or five as I remember,’ said Hunter. ‘Some kind of family event maybe.’
‘Do you have it?’
‘No.’
‘Can you get it?’ More glances between Hunter and Espie. ‘Please?’ said Famie. ‘Your boss will be here soon and it’ll be too late. Make the call.’
Hunter made the call. Two minutes later her phone buzzed. She selected the image, handed the phone to Famie. Charlie leant over. She tilted the phone, spinning the picture to a wide setting.
An outdoor shot. Summer. Eight people in the frame, in three rough lines. The Hussain brothers were sitting in chairs, an older man and woman to their left and right. Two bored teenagers sat in front of them, one clutching his phone to his chest. Two women stood behind Amal, both with half-smiles as though sharing a joke. One rested a hand on his shoulder. Striking, mid-thirties, black hair to her shoulders. Next to her, a taller, younger woman turned her face to the camera. Her head lowered slightly, maybe to deliver the punch line.
Famie tightened her grip on the phone. She heard the thudding of her blood again. Her fingers reached for the younger woman’s face, then enlarged it as far as it would go. A small scar was visible on the bridge of her nose.
‘Jesus Christ,’ she said.
‘What?’ said Charlie.
‘Those women,’ said Famie. ‘Behind Amal. Let’s say his wife. And his wife’s friend. The one with the scar.’
Hunter finished the sentence. ‘The women in the shower. The women on Seth’s laptop.’
Famie briefly held one hand to her mouth. She spoke through her fingers: ‘Seth was screwing Amal’s wife. And whoever the scar-nose woman is.’ The all-too-familiar feelings of loathing and revulsion flowed again. She stared at the image. The younger face, the smiling, amused eyes. ‘Let’s hope it’s the nanny.’
They all stared at the screen. Espie straightened then stepped away. Hunter followed. Famie saw the glances between them.
‘Now can we go?’ she said.
75
AFTER DECIDING NOT to use Gregor’s phone, Hari did sleep after all. He dreamt of his sisters, a bloodied Mary Lawson and a funeral procession where everyone was, for some reason he couldn’t fathom, running. He woke with a start, drenched in sweat. Some had seeped into his chest wound, then oozed out again. Two lines, deep crimson, forked their way down and around his rib cage. He glanced to his left. The phone was gone. To his right, Collins knelt, facing the wall, eyes closed. The room was bright now. He squinted through the jagged shards of the broken windows. An electric-blue sky, no clouds. Framed in steel. The sun was up, the day was here.
Hari looked at the silent, intense preparations underway around him. He remembered an old documentary he had watched with his grandmother about the Indian cricket team. One section had featured the meticulous pre-match preparations of their star player Sachin Tendulkar. In the changing room he would unpack his kitbag, taking out his gloves, pads and shoes from polythene covers. He would check the photographs of his children, his flag of India. When he was settled, he would inspect the pitch, checking it intently for firmness and moisture. He would play a short football game. Play a few cover drives with his bat. When he was happy, he would retreat to the changing room. His grandmother had smiled broadly at him. ‘You know what he is now, Hari?’ She pointed at the figure of Tendulkar. ‘He is ready for battle. That’s what he is.’
In the warehouse, Gregor, Binici and Kamran were all going through their own preparation rituals. Getting ready for their battle. Gregor was inspecting, then polishing his knife. When he had covered every millimetre, he started again. Inspect, polish. Inspect, polish. Binici, naked, was anointing himself with oils. Different bottles for different parts of his body. He was paying particular attention to his thigh muscles, pressing his thumbs, then his knuckles, deep into the tissue. His skin shone. Inspect and polish. Kamran had a stretching programme. Flat on his back, he pulled each leg to his chest. He twisted, rolled, balanced. A makeshift bandage across his chest showed fresh bleeding, an oval of red spreading across the coarse cloth. He unwound the strip, dabbed then wiped the wound with a corner around the broken skin, then retied. Inspect and polish.
Hari didn’t move. He had no routine, no ritual, no ‘state of mind’ to achieve. With shaking hands he drank water from a plastic bottle, then immediately vomited it all back up again. The acrid stench filled his lungs within seconds. He was about to apologize but no one else took any notice. Not even Collins, who was barely a metre away.
Part of my ritual, thought Hari.
He threw the rest of the water on the vomit, swilling it away as best he could, then sat back down. He reached for his shirt and eased it over his head, pulling and picking it away from his scabbing wounds. He felt the cotton settle against them. Sensed his racing heart. Wondered how much longer he had left.
Hari assumed he was the only one quite this scared, though Collins did look grey. He caught her eye, she looked away.
No one spoke.
Tattoos, Teeth and Red Head appeared from the upper room. Each was stripped to the waist, each had shirts over their right shoulder, each with their Böhler knives held in their right hand. Their appearance signalled the start of something. Kamran stopped the stretching, Binici got dressed and Gregor seemed to accept his knife wasn’t going to get any cleaner. He pocketed it. Hari pocketed his too. Binici approached him, jangling the car keys.
‘I’m getting the van,’ he said.
‘Third floor,’ said Hari. ‘Behind a pillar.’
Binici left with Gregor. Hari felt relieved it wasn’t him and Collins again. He wondered if Binici knew what had happened with Collins. Or had guessed.
‘Where’s Hussain?’ he whispered, as soon as Collins appeared open to the idea of conversation.
Her face was taut, her lips pressed tight. She wiped sweat from her nose with a thumb and forefinger. ‘Left a while back,’ she said. ‘When you were asleep.’ She looked away as though the act of speaking had been too much for her.
He felt for the photo in his shirt pocket.
Hussain was with Millie and Amara.
Hari vomited again. This time he retched till his stomach was empty. He slumped back against the wall, the exertions opening up his cuts again. Fresh blood ran, only some of it absorbed by the cotton of his shirt. Hari resolved to stay as still as possible. He breathed as deeply as his cuts allowed.
The sound of an engine drifted through the broken windows. It stopped outside. Everyone stood. Collins walked away. Hari hauled himself to his feet.
Oh Christ.
Ready for battle.
76
7.59 a.m.
ROBERTS CLAMBERED THROUGH the broken window of number 26. He stood briefly, feet crunching the broken glass, eyes adjusting to the room’s curtained near-darkness. An ordered room. Quiet suburbia. Sofa, small wooden table, a pile of coasters, two worn armchairs. There was an empty bookshelf, a candlewax-covered gin bottle positioned nearest the window. An unused bookend. The smell of the room was musty, stale. The odour of decomposition was in the air, but less pronounced than it had been by the porch. Whatever the source, it wasn’t in this room. He pulled open the door to the hall and retched. Definitely closer. Shutting the door he went and took a breath by the window and tried again.
Two bolts, a chain, and Talbot was in, the broiling street air still a welcome, freshening breeze.
Behind him, a small crowd lined the low garden wall. Water bottles in hand, pointing. If the police were breaking into houses on their street, they sure wanted to watch. Roberts closed the front door.
‘Whatever it is, we’re right on top of it. Right here.’
‘Unless the whole house is the same,’ said Talbot. ‘Who knows what went on.’
Gloved hand over his mouth, he walked through to the kitchen. Tentative, cautious steps. Hotter here, the contents of the waste bin adding to the noxious air they breathed. Used and half-empty glasses of water stood on the counter. Roberts, following behind, counted five of them.
‘Visitors,’ he said. ‘Don’t touch them.’ He tried the door to the courtyard. It swung open. ‘Who left this way presumably.’
Both officers stepped outside. Two chairs had been placed by the far fence, another empty glass on its side between them. Talbot climbed on to a chair, peered over the fence. The parallel terrace offered a choice of alleys to escape down.
‘And then over here,’ he said. ‘Two gardens and you’re out.’
He stepped down, and both men looked up at the back windows. All shut, all curtained. More deep breaths.
‘Right then,’ said Roberts.
He led the way back inside, a single route through the house. The kitchen, the lounge, the hallway. There was no doubt where the stench was coming from. Roberts sat on the bottom step, lifted a corner of the hall’s matting. There was about three metres of it, a thick, coarse weave of dirty brown nylon, running from the foot of the stairs to the front door. He revealed about a metre of the cheap, worn floorboards beneath. Ran a finger along a deep, battered groove that had been gouged in the wood, cutting across the grain. Talbot walked to the other end. Back to the door, he lifted what he could. It was enough.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said.
Together, they folded the matting back on itself, the underside encrusted with congealed and dried blood. A new intensity to the rotting smell caused both men to turn their heads. Roberts closed his eyes briefly. Exhaled.
‘Better do this.’
They exposed only what they needed to. Five lines of ill-fitting floorboards ran the length of it, most of their surface area now smeared in blood. Where the knots in the wood butted up against a join, most had fallen through. Disappeared long ago. Most of the holes were dark, empty, but towards the door a run of three showed a distinct lining of blue. A fabric of some kind, pushed up against the underside. Roberts and Talbot caught it at the same time, exchanged a glance. Stepping forward, the boards shifted beneath their feet. Left and right. Loose, like there was no glue, no nails keeping them in place.