by Sarah Flint
She scrolled down to see the details of the most recent assault just as Naz and Sabira walked in.
Naz had a handful of statements in her hand. She looked tired.
‘Hi, Charlie, your murder sounds bad. Any leads as yet?’
‘Not yet. We’ve been like you really; dealing with the victim and her family. Thanks for sorting out the Miller case.’
‘No worries. I’ll update you now, if you want.’ Naz walked across to her desk and sat down.
Sabira busied herself logging back on to the computer. She was always there in the background, quiet, hard-working and determined. Charlie watched her briefly as she typed into the keyboard. She admired her strength. As a young Asian woman she had gone against her parents’ wishes in joining the police service. Coming out as a lesbian a few years later brought them even more disappointment. She spoke little about the reaction she’d received, but it couldn’t have been easy. Sabira, however, was forging a life, her own life, and nothing was going to curtail her ambitions. Charlie pulled up her seat next to Naz, making a mental note to invite Sabira out for a drink soon.
‘So, do you think Miller is responsible for the one that came in this morning?’
‘Almost certainly.’ Naz leant back in her seat.
‘Shit!’
‘The victim is a middle-aged black lady called Marcia Gordon. She’s ended up with ninety-three stitches, mainly to her face, neck and scalp. One of the cuts has gone through the cornea of her left eye. She could potentially be blinded in that eye for life. They’ll be carrying out further ops to try and save the sight in it.’
‘Cowardly bastard.’
‘Marcia is lovely. She’s actually quite philosophical about it. She walks to Kings College Hospital every morning where she works as an orderly and has walked through the same estate almost every day for the last eight years. She knows she would be better off going a different route but she takes the risk because it cuts off such a huge chunk of her journey.’
‘She shouldn’t have to worry about a risk. People should be safe to walk where they want; especially at that time in the morning.’
‘I know, anyway, she said so far she’s only been robbed on a couple of occasions in all that time. She thinks that is good! Both of the other times they got her handbag too. To her, it’s only property that can be replaced. She doesn’t keep much of value in it, nor does she try and hang on to it and fight; and she didn’t this time either. She was walking through the estate towards the hospital when the suspect stepped out in front of her. He fits the description of Miller exactly. She offered her bag because she could see he was a crack-head and looked desperate. He had a broken bottle in his hand. He just started slashing at her face with it, over and over again. Oh, Charlie, you should have seen her. Her face was cut to pieces. I took a few instant photos of her injuries to show the immediate aftermath, but I’ve arranged for an official photographer to come and see her tomorrow.’
Naz pulled out an envelope and spread half a dozen photos across the desk, each one listed as exhibits.
Sabira glanced over as Charlie stared down at them, her eyes not quite believing what she was seeing. ‘Sickening aren’t they?’ Sabira said in almost a whisper.
Charlie stared at the images taken from different angles of Marcia Gordon’s profile. Her features were swollen out of all proportion. Rows of stitches zig-zagged across her face and neck; black thread tied as neatly as possible in tiny knots, holding the jagged edges together. A particularly nasty gash worked its way from the side of her scalp, through the corner of her left eye and down across the cheek, almost to her lips.
‘Oh my God! How can he do this?’
‘And the most disgusting thing is that he didn’t have to. Marcia had thrown her bag down almost immediately. He could have picked it up and gone at any time, but he didn’t. He kept slashing at her, screaming and calling her a “Black bitch”, saying that he didn’t just want her bag, he wanted to fuck her up and that she shouldn’t be in his country. It was awful. She could have been my old mum. She’s lovely.
‘Luckily someone heard all the noise and phoned for an ambulance and police. The paramedics got her to Kings really quick. She’s lost a hell of a lot of blood but after they patched the worst of it up, she was happy to tell me what had happened. She’ll be staying in for a few nights until they can be sure none of the cuts are infected and for a specialist to look at her eye. I was going to take witness albums to the hospital to show her possible suspect photos tomorrow. She got a good look at him and is saying she won’t forget his face.’
‘I know the feeling. I have nightmares about his face too and I’m sure there are quite a few others who feel the same.’
‘I’ll make sure his photo is in the album and keep my fingers crossed that she picks him out. Then at least we can get him circulated for this too. At some point when we get him in, we’ll get a full ID parade sorted and hope that she picks him out on that as well.’
‘Naz, you’re a star. I’ll try and get the hunt going for him properly as soon as I can, but I know I’m going to be strapped for time tomorrow.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll carry on as long as you need. I’ve got a vested interest in the case myself now. I want him convicted of Marcia’s assault too, the evil racist bastard.’
‘Not to mention the one on Annie Mitchell and Moses Sinkler. Have you had a chance to speak to him yet?’
Naz shook her head. ‘Sorry, we’ve been run off our feet and I thought it would be better coming from you anyway.’
Charlie put her hand up to stop Naz’s apologies. Since their first meeting in the hospital a few months before, she’d grown very fond of Moses and was always happy to speak to him. She was not looking forward to this particular conversation, however, as he would be devastated.
‘No time like the present. Thanks for everything, Naz.’
She picked up the phone and dialled his number; smiling, despite herself as the sound of Moses’ deep, rich Jamaican accent came on the line.
‘Hello, who is it?’
‘Hi Moses, it’s Charlie. I have some news for you.’ She tried to keep her voice as normal as she could. She should be ringing to tell him Miller had been remanded in custody.
‘Charlie, my favourite girl. It’s good to hear from you. How’s it going? You got him banged up for good yet?’
She didn’t want to tell him the news. He didn’t even like mentioning Miller by name. She didn’t have to.
He caught the slight reluctance in her voice, the pause before she spoke. ‘Oh no! What’s happened?’
She heard the old man cry out as if in pain before he covered the mouthpiece with his hand to try to muffle his sobs. She heard the sound of the back of the chair hitting the wall and the groan as he slumped down on to it and there were no words she could say to stop his anguish.
‘He’s out isn’t he?’
Chapter 9
Ben was tying his trainers up when Charlie arrived. She threw her bag down in his lounge and pulled off a couple of outer layers. However cold it was, she always liked to run with little on. Only when it was really icy or snow lay on the ground did she ever cover up, and then only with one thin layer of Lycra. Bare-armed, bare-shouldered, bare-legged; her only concession was a pair of woolly gloves and the woolly hat which was still attached to her head now.
She caught Ben staring towards her. ‘Oy, stop it, lover boy. You’re not supposed to be eyeing up your coach.’
‘I can’t help it if my coach is also perfectly formed and gorgeous.’
She laughed, pinching the slight muffin top that protruded over the waistband of her shorts and slapped the top of her thighs. ‘Well if you happen to be looking at me through the eyes of a seal, I might be. At the moment I have more blubber than a Mediterranean monk seal waiting for the winter.’
Ben laughed out loud. ‘For goodness sake, Charlie, where do you get these ideas from? I’ve never even heard of a Mediterranean monk seal.’
‘Tha
t’s because there’s not many of us left. We’re nearly extinct. Apparently we’re similar to the more common monk seal but are mainly based in the Mediterranean. I liked the idea because I thought it would be a bit warmer there. David Attenborough was talking about us on TV the other day. Think it must have been that sultry, sad expression, looking up at Sir David from a rock.’
‘What are you like? Anyway I thought you didn’t like the water?’
‘Ah, that’s true. I’ll have to become a land-based animal.’ She tilted her head to one side, looking up at Ben through large, watery eyes sadly. She didn’t have to pretend. The thought of water always brought back bad memories.
‘Maybe a gazelle then? They have big sultry eyes and run like the wind.’ Ben’s voice brought her back.
She smiled at the idea. ‘Hmm, I wish. Right, let’s get this over with and then we can sit down with a coffee and a doughnut.’
Once outside she set off at a sprint, before relaxing down to a steady jog, heading towards Brockwell Park, their favourite route. Within a couple of minutes she heard Ben puffing up behind her, his footsteps next to her, solid and reassuring. The evening air was cold and dank and a slight mist was descending across the top of the trees. A murder of crows sat spaced out along the uppermost branches, each bird occupying its own observation point, their black feathers and beady eyes making the park seem sinister and menacing. She always remembered their collective name; somehow seeing them out tonight seemed appropriate after the day’s activities. Charlie pointed at them and Ben looked upwards, grimacing.
‘They’re called a murder of crows because they look so evil, but they’re actually very sociable birds. They just have a bad reputation because they’re scavengers.’
As if to prove a point, one of the crows took flight, its black wings flapping noisily in the gloom, landing with a slight commotion next to another. The branch dipped and the two birds nestled close, preening and pecking, before settling amiably together.
‘Never judge a book by its cover, eh?’ Ben sucked in a large breath of air. ‘You might think I look unfit and that you can beat me, but you can’t.’ He took off at a sprint. Charlie upped her speed too and caught up with him as they were about to leave the park. She clapped him on the back.
‘Ben, I don’t know what I’d do without you. You bring me back to earth with a thud every day.’
She slowed down to a comfortable jog again and they meandered through a few backstreets to Ben’s flat, slowing down to a stop as they reached his front yard.
‘Are you coming in tonight?’ Ben turned to speak to Charlie as she stood stretching her calves out against the wall next door.
‘If you’re offering me a long, cold drink I will. We need to talk about our strategy for getting through “Tough guy”.’
They had signed up to an event that was based in Wolverhampton twice a year, in winter and summer, and were in training for the winter event that was held every January. It was an assault course over fields, hills and water, through the thickest mud she’d ever seen before. Eight miles of it; including barbed wire to crawl under, hanging electrified strips giving a painful shock if brushed against; lakes and water obstacles that left extremities frozen and lines of burning hay bales to jump through.
It was the sort of thing that Charlie loved, and as part of Ben’s rehabilitation; she’d persuaded him to join her. To be fair, as soon as he’d seen the footage of it on the internet he’d been up for it too. It was the part of being in the armed forces that he’d loved; the sport, the physical tests, the team spirit. It had been watching those same team members die, blown literally into bits before him, after stepping on landmines that had brought him to his knees, unable to deal with life, unless through the haze of alcohol. He spoke little of it, except on the odd occasion when the nightmares got too much, but she could see the anguish that remained, only too obvious from the pain and fear in his eyes. Ben was determined to run for ‘Help for Heroes’; Charlie was running for the RNLI, both charities close to their hearts.
‘I’m offering water, waffles and good conversation.’
‘How can I turn you down then? I’d be a fool.’
‘You’d be a fool to turn me down whether I was offering you nothing but the skin I was born in.’
She turned and wrapped her arms around him. She’d first chatted to Ben when he was sat, often half-drunk, collecting for charity outside the Imperial War Museum, around the corner from her office. Their friendship had further developed after he’d been beaten and robbed and she’d helped bring the perpetrator to justice. He was such a lovely guy, so gentle and considerate; very quickly both had felt able to confide in each other some of the sadness and guilt from their pasts. For the moment though she was happy to keep him as a friend and to help him conquer his issues and get fit after breaking his leg in a recent fall. She’d see what happened then. Right now, her job was her priority. Love, marriage and kids could come later, if the right person came along. Maybe it was Ben, maybe it wasn’t.
‘I’ve got standards, Ben, and I would certainly need more than just your bare skin. A mankini at least.’
‘Eugh, not a good thought. Let’s stick to water and waffles.’
‘Yes, let’s.’
They both laughed. Charlie followed Ben through the hallway to his flat and filled them both a pint from the tap. The flat was clean and tidy with no sign of the piles of empty beer cans and ash-trays full of dog ends that had been there on her first visit six months before. He was doing so well. No more booze and the cigarettes had been swapped for vapes. He’d even cut right back on them. The next step would be trying to get him back into employment.
‘Looking good in here. Here, get this down you.’
Ben took the pint and downed it in one, placing the empty glass upside down on the top of his head. Charlie laughed and tried to do the same, spluttering and choking when only halfway through it.
‘You’re hopeless. You’ll never make an alcoholic.’
‘Maybe you should tell my mum that, Ben. She’s convinced that either me or my sisters will take after my stepfather, and I’m sure she thinks it will be me. She checks out the contents of my fridge every time she visits and lectures me on healthy eating.’
‘That’s parents for you. Anyway it’s their job to give us youngsters the benefit of their experience.’
‘I don’t think any previous experience would have prepared me for today.’
‘Bad one?’
‘Just a normal day in sunny Lambeth. One murder, one escaped prisoner and several victims of GBH.’
‘You wanna tell me about it?’
‘No, not really. I’m back straight into it in the morning, early. I might grab a shower here and doss down on your sofa, if you don’t mind me keeping you company tonight. It’ll save me trekking to mine and I can keep you on the straight and narrow too.’
Ben nodded enthusiastically and went to open his mouth.
Charlie put her fingers to her lips. ‘Shush. I know what you’re going to say and the answer’s still no; though ten out of ten for effort.’
He pouted good-humouredly and shook his head. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing. One day you’ll give in to my charms and let me be your knight in shining armour.’ He filled the glasses with water again and passed Charlie hers. ‘But for now, when we stagger through the finish line at “Tough Guy” in January, freezing cold and they throw a space blanket at me, I’ll just be your mate in silver foil.’
*
Cornell Miller twisted his body on his mate’s sofa. Well he wasn’t really a mate; more like an old guy who didn’t have the sense to say no to him. Cecil was known to everybody, but friends with none. He was in his late sixties, with a thick head of long, grey, greasy hair which hung down his back in wavy locks, joining up with an unkempt beard and moustache if he leant forward. He was thickset and dirty, with wild, staring eyes. Cecil was mad, or at least he gave that impression. He would walk down the road muttering and shouting out
loudly and neighbours and pedestrians alike gave him a wide berth. The police gave him an even wider berth. The feeling was mutual; he hated them. At the merest sight of a uniform he would stir from passive aggression to full on rage.
As far as Cornell Miller was concerned, anyone who hated the Old Bill was a friend of his, like Blackz the night-time burglar who had happily removed the handcuff in return for a single rock of crack. The pigs would never come for him at Cecil’s, especially not that bitch DC Charlie fucking Stafford. It had been sweet, knowing that she would be doing her nut when she found out he’d escaped. Even fucking sweeter when she found out, as he was sure she would, that he’d robbed that old, black bitch on her way to work.
He flicked his lighter and drew on the cigarette hanging at the corner of his mouth, blowing out the smoke into the foetid air. Cecil didn’t like opening the windows. He didn’t like opening the doors either. He’d only got in himself by buying Cecil some fags, following him home and sweet-talking the mad-man into the promise of more cigarettes and drugs in return for letting him stay. Now he was in though, Cecil was already counting him as an ally. He was Cecil’s friend.
Miller stretched and closed his eyes, sucking in another lungful of nicotine, before expelling it out through his nose. It took away some of the stench. Rubbish lay around the room; piles of discarded food containers and paper bags full of rotting chicken bones coated with the grime of many years. Cecil’s place was a shithole, but it was somewhere to sleep out of the cold; and it was somewhere he hadn’t been before; ever.
He looked around at the clutter and disarray. This was his life. It wasn’t great, in fact it was pretty shitty at the moment, but he survived and he was still free to move about and do what he wanted. There was no way he was prepared to give up that freedom yet. He would stay at Cecil’s for a few more days and then move on. Keep moving. Keep ahead.