Mutilated (DP, DIC02)

by Will Patching

  ‘Fair enough, but this is my gig, okay? We’ll start with the inmate, then the staff member. That’ll give us a chance to assess the extent of their involvement before we see Harding. Okay?’

  ‘You want me just observing too, Jack?’

  ‘I’ll lead but you can jump in as necessary, Doc, especially with this schizo nutter. That’s rather more your territory than mine.’ Jack was perusing the inmate’s file as he spoke. ‘Okay, Winston. Can you get — I’m not sure how to pronounce this — Sudhakar Sakthi in for us now, please?’

  ***

  ‘Okay Lanny, let’s send these photos to DS Sharpe and I’ll ask him to do a comparison with the mugshot we have of Harry Butler.’

  The two detectives were sitting in the car outside the Hope, Not Fear tattoo parlour, with Fiona buzzing, convinced she had found their missing medic.

  ‘You really think it’s the same guy? It’s difficult to tell from these shots, especially with those bloody great ear lobe plugs covering half his face.’

  Fiona was impatient, but could understand DC Jewell’s hesitation as she wirelessly transferred the images from her phone on to the bigger screen of their iPad. Moments later, after scrutinising the three enlarged photos she was satisfied.

  ‘Yeah, I think it’s him but send them now. I’ll call Sam.’

  Fiona had taken the photographs from those displayed among the ‘customer’ tattoos on the wall. The design of one had jumped out at her as she absently scanned the display as it reminded her of the angel’s wings she had seen scratched into the paint of Gerald Butler’s under stairs cell. The tattoo on the person’s back was far more intricate as it included a rod with two green snakes slithering up its length, and the artist had created a stunning optical illusion with a three dimensional effect.

  The wings were enough to draw her attention, but the man’s face was partially visible too. Despite the head being in profile, Fiona had a eureka moment as her mind screamed out: it was Harry Butler she was looking at. Two other photos she’d copied to her phone showed the same guy tattooing customers, but again, his face was not properly visible.

  ‘Drive, Lanny. Brixton Market.’ Fiona thumbed her phone contact list then heard Sam’s voice almost the moment she dialled.

  ‘Hi, Fifi. Your photos just came through. I haven’t had a chance to even open the files yet. I’m working up a list of suspects for the boss, including medical, vets —’

  ‘Sorry Sam, this is more important. I think it’s Harry Butler, and I’m pretty sure he’s changed his name, unofficially, to Harry Hope. Can you expedite this for me, mate? I need to be certain before I talk to Jack. Check out the ownership and other related documents for the Hope, Not Fear tattoo place and see if we can get a signature or other handwriting match for the proprietor with Butler’s file.’

  A long sigh, followed by Sharpe’s resigned tone. ‘I have a ton of stuff to do, Fi. All of it has priority… I’ll get to it later today when I have a spare moment. Fair enough?’

  Bugger it.

  ‘Yeah, thanks mate.’ Fiona ended the call, her enthusiasm undimmed, voice bubbling as she asked Lanny, ‘What did you think of that girl, Shazza?’

  ‘They’re both a right state, Sarge. The bloke with his Spidey face and her with those ear stretching things. So bloody ugly. And her forked tongue! Like an evil snake. She seemed a bit wet to me, though.’

  ‘She was lying through her teeth. Wet herself almost the moment she realised who we were. You could see her sweating, her hands in perpetual motion, her shifty glances during questioning. Didn’t you see any of that, Lanny?’

  Fiona was thinking of Carver’s bullshit antennae and hers had been on high alert the moment the freak had opened her mouth. Lanny needed to develop her own.

  ‘Well, a bit. She’s totally weird, and definitely shady when it came to your questions about Harry Hope. Lovers, probably.’

  Her constable had a lot of learning to do, that was for sure, though she had excelled during their more sensitive meeting with the Rawlings widow earlier. Sharon Tait’s possible involvement with the man Fiona now thought of as Harry Butler-Hope was something Fiona should have picked up on too, rather than automatically linking the girl with Spiderman Glen when he came to her defence.

  Good cop, bad cop?

  Maybe they would make a good team, given time. A smile crept on to Fiona’s lips at the thought before Lanny switched tack.

  ‘What’s at Brixton Market, Sarge?’

  ‘It’s a hunch I’ve got about the African connection.’

  ‘The bone guy? The one you were asking Sam about?’

  ‘Yep. William Mutuku. Last name means born at night, apparently. Very apt as this scrote has a habit of breaking and entering during the dark.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Not personally.’ It was only a white lie. ‘Local character, always in trouble when I was growing up, the sort of bloke your mum warns you off. Not that I needed warning.’

  ‘So what’s his deal?’

  ‘He used to nick things to order on my estate. You wanted a computer, TV, microwave, car radio, you’d let him know how much you’d pay and he’d find one to suit your budget. A bit like Del Trotter only a proper crook. To be honest, I assumed he’d been locked up long ago.’

  ‘And you think he can help with the Rawlings investigation?’

  Fiona was not so sure now, having once again just convinced herself Harry Butler-Hope was their missing link, their number one suspect. Sam would get on to that soon enough, so now she would confront William Mutuku herself, and reel him in. Hopefully, he would shed some light on the practice of muti magic in London. Perhaps even the murder of Adam, the little African boy whose torso had been found floating in the Thames so many years ago.

  ‘I’m not sure, Lanny. Mutuku had a reputation for being connected to some sort of voodoo outfit, into black magic and so on, used to revel in the notoriety it gave him.’

  ‘Magic? You’re thinking he has some links to the ritual killings Doc was on about in the briefing?’

  ‘Yeah. Turns out, he wears a pendant with an Atlas bone, the one Doc said is taken from the neck. It’s not voodoo, it’s muti. Proper African magic. When I was a nipper the locals all claimed he had a magic charm, and that was why he was never caught.’

  ‘But you said he’d been nicked.’

  ‘Yeah, many years after I joined the force, though he did lead a charmed life for decades before he was collared.’

  ‘We’re almost at Brixton Market. Where to now, Sarge?’

  They were approaching a new Waitrose, the upmarket store a sure sign of Brixton’s ongoing gentrification, gradually sloughing off its previous reputation for riots, Yardie gangs and drug wars.

  ‘Park in there, it’s near enough.’

  Lanny swung the car into the supermarket car park as Fiona unbuckled and said, ‘You grab yourself a cuppa in the coffee shop. It’s best I see him alone.’

  ‘The boss said we should stick together —’

  ‘DC Jewell, just do as I say. I know his type, and if I’m to get anything out of him we cannot go in mob handed. Clear?’

  ‘If you’re sure…’

  ‘Positive. One look at your pretty white face will shut him down like a clam. I won’t be long. And don’t fret — if it’s a dead end, I’ll drop it. Now grab yourself a drink. I’ll call you if I need you.’

  ***

  ‘Well that was a bloody waste of time, Doc!’

  The paranoid schizophrenic inmate, Sudhakar Sakthi, had been true to form, despite the heavy dose of anti-psychotics the nursing staff had injected into his bloodstream. He had ranted about the atrocities committed by the Tamil Tigers in his home country of Sri Lanka, before demanding more protection, here, in a secure facility in the heart of leafy Berkshire. He pleaded with the Detective Inspector to investigate his ‘formal complaints’ about the lack of security he suffered during his time here, as he moaned about Winston’s ‘useless’ staff, explaining how no one too
k him seriously while his life hung in the balance each minute of every day.

  Only Harding could ensure his safety inside Broadmoor’s walls.

  Doc had tiptoed through some questions, skilfully calming the highly agitated inmate, and, by the time he had finished, Jack was convinced the schizo knew nothing about the photographs, or that Harding had secreted them in a hollowed out recess under the man’s wardrobe.

  ‘Well, it confirms what we suspected, Jack. Harding is a manipulative psychopath, able to latch on to other, less stable inmates, and use them to his advantage. Poor Sudhakar’s convinced he’s found his saviour. Harding’s more dangerous here than he would be in a high security prison.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I was never a fan of putting murderous bastards in hospital rather than where they really belong. Let’s get this other bloke in. Another bloody name I can barely pronounce. Daniel Ngwene. What is that, African? There’s nothing in the file to indicate the man’s ethnic origins, other than the dark skin in this photograph.’

  ‘Understood, Detective.’ Winston shrugged. ‘I’m not too happy about the sparse amount of the information we receive from Global Contracting Services either, but the government’s keen to outsource as many public jobs to private companies as feasible, so my hands are tied. We’ve been migrating our security personnel headcount from permanent civil servants as they retire or move on. All part of the great capitalist experiment. Daniel’s been with us six months, and he’s the only recently appointed staff member with access to Harding who also has editing privileges for the visitors’ logs. There are a couple of others, but they’re long term employees, people I hired personally, and I trust them one hundred percent, having worked with them for years. I’ll get him in.’

  Winston left to find the guard.

  ‘What do you think Doc? You trust Winston’s judgement?’

  ‘Sure, Jack. And the African link… I think that’s the angle we should explore. You can do your bad cop thing, and I’ll try to ease some information out of him.’

  A commotion in the corridor outside disturbed their ruminations. Daniel Ngwene appeared in the doorway, with Winston guiding him, a massive hand clasped on the security guard’s shoulder.

  ‘Get your hands off me Diamond! You want me to talk to this policeman, you get me a lawyer! I have rights. I’ll report you to my bosses at GCS. You’ll be in big trouble.’

  ‘Sit down Daniel. I’m Detective Inspector Carver and this is Doctor Powers, a forensic psychiatrist assisting the Metropolitan Police with a major investigation.’

  ‘No. I’m leaving now. This is wrong —’

  ‘You have a choice. Either sit down, or I will arrest you for obstructing a police officer in the lawful execution of his duties, haul you down the nearest nick, and make your life a misery for the next twenty-four hours. And that’s just for starters. I will also make it my business to ruin your reputation, and ensure you never find another job working in security. So how about we just have a chat here instead, eh?’

  The man hesitated. Winston, having released Daniel, leaned against the wall by the door. Doc and Jack were both seated at one side of Winston’s small conference table with one vacant chair facing them.

  ‘Please sit, Daniel.’ Doc’s measured tones did the trick, and Jack watched as the man shuffled further into the room then perched on the edge of the seat with his hands on his knees, as if ready to leave even before they had started. ‘I need you to be totally honest, with me. Now, I wonder, can you tell us about your surname? Where your family originated? Ngwene is an African tribal name, correct?’

  Jack relaxed back in his chair as Doc took over, gently coaxing information about the origins of the name, probing the man’s history, discovering how he had arrived in the UK some fifteen years ago at the age of nine. Daniel began to unwind, as if talking about his childhood on the shores of Lake Victoria was a happy diversion from the real reason for this interview.

  Jack could read the word Guilty as clearly as if it was tattooed across Daniel’s forehead. Doc must have picked up the man’s nervous signals, his body language too.

  ‘Well, Daniel, let’s discuss the reason Detective Carver and I need to speak with you today. We know you have been helping an inmate with information. Antony Harding —’

  ‘That’s a lie, Doctor! I never —’

  ‘Please listen carefully, Daniel. If you refuse to co-operate, I cannot help you, and DI Carver will arrest you. You see, we know you gave information to Harding, but I don’t think you knew this would lead to the attempted murder of another inmate…’

  ‘I never gave any information to no one —’

  Jack could see the telltale eye movement, up and to the side, that confirmed the lie. Doc continued as if the guard had not spoken.

  ‘Which means you could be charged as an accessory.’ A pause to let that sink in. ‘Now, I can only help you if you’re totally honest with us. I think I understand why you would do something like this and put your job at risk, or worse. You would have to be very frightened.’

  ‘I’m not frightened of no one!’

  Another unconvincing lie. Jack wondered how Doc was going to unlock the truth, and was rather surprised at what came next.

  ‘Tell me about the shaman. When did he approach you?’

  This was news to Jack. How Doc had made a leap from Harding attacking an inmate to a magic man putting the frighteners on the security guard was, as usual, inspired, if a little mystical itself. Jack would have bullied the man into submission, focused on the photographs. They made a good team. And right now, Daniel was also suitably stunned by Doc’s insight.

  ‘How do you know about him?’

  We didn’t, but we do now. Nice one Doc.

  ‘He threatened you, didn’t he? Your family too?’

  A nod.

  ‘You had to help him, even though you knew it would put your job, your career at risk. I understand, Daniel. When did he first approach you?’

  ‘I can’t talk about him, sir. If I do —’

  ‘His muti magic is not as powerful as you believe, Daniel, especially in this country. If you tell us everything, I can personally guarantee you will come to no harm from this individual, regardless of his magic spells.’

  Jack could see hope in the man’s eyes, and suddenly realised just how badly affected Daniel had been by the threat from an African witchdoctor. The very idea of it was abhorrent, incredible, to him as a committed atheist, but the shaman was wielding real power over this superstitious young man, right here, in England’s Home Counties. Magic or not, the effect was the same.

  ‘How can you guarantee he won’t kill me or my mother? He’s a really bad man.’

  ‘You see, his power relies on his freedom, his ability to do as he pleases, to create his magic charms and potions. We’re very close to arresting him, putting him somewhere where he cannot harm you.’ Doc spoke with such conviction that Jack almost believed the lie. ‘But if you don’t help us, he will find out about this meeting, and then you’ll be in more danger. Is that what you want?’

  Jack could see the indecision on the man’s face. He considered butting in, but Doc placed a warning hand on his arm as he leaned forward to speak. Patience had never been Jack’s forte, but he waited.

  ‘Daniel? This is your only chance to escape his power. Talk to us.’

  Another few moments passed, with Jack wondering if he would need to prod the man into confessing.

  Daniel seemed to pray, his eyes clamped shut, his chin lifting, lips moving silently. Finally, a nod, then the dam burst.

  Clearly relieved to be telling someone, someone who understood, Daniel Ngwene spilled everything he knew.

  ***

  ‘Remember me, Willie?’

  The string hammock stretched from one side of the cramped storage room to the other, probably three metres or so in length. The air was thick with smoke from an aromatic herb, one Fiona had not tried for fifteen years or so, since her rebellious teen years. Despite the fragrant
blue haze filtering the streaks of sunlight beaming through the ventilation bricks in the tops of the walls, the stacks of illicit goods surrounding her were easily discernible. Dozens of laptops, tablets and phones of various description filled boxes near her feet, and flat screen TVs and monitors dominated one entire wall, with desktop computers stacked ceiling high against the other.

  William Mutuku, the source of the blue haze, shifted his weight in the hammock and craned his neck to see who had interrupted his siesta.

  ‘Whaddafuck? Who’s youse?’

  Fiona hit the light switch as she stood in the doorway, and laughed as she said, ‘Having trouble seeing, sunshine? Here, take a good look. See if that jogs your memory.’

  Willie squinted, sat upright then swung his feet to the floor, took a pull on his joint, blew some ash off the end, yawned with an exaggerated stretch, then focused on the rude woman who had interrupted his dreams.

  ‘No idea, darlin. What’ya doin here disturbin me in me man cave? No one comes in here and ev’ybody knows I work nights.’

  ‘Work?’ Fiona hoofed a box across the floor at him. ‘Is that what you call it?’

  ‘Hey, careful! Them’s mine! You break, you pay! Whoddafuck are you? Comin in here like dis? You want trouble, missy?’

  ‘Oh, I think the trouble’s all yours, Willie.’ Fiona did her magician’s trick with the warrant card, making it appear and disappear in an instant. ‘Detective Sergeant Fielding. You may remember me as Fingers Fifi. The nickname you created for me the day you brought me here and tried to corrupt me when I was just eight years old! A regular bloody Fagin in those days, weren’t you? Do you still use little kids to thieve for — ?’

  He was quick. Like a rugby player sprinting head down for a goal.

  Fiona realised too late that his movements since her arrival — the shifting upright, the planting of his feet in an open stance and the feigned yawn — were pure misdirection, carefully choreographed to disguise his preparations to flee.