City of Sinners

by A. A. Dhand

  ‘How long for the patrol cars?’ asked Harry, walking at pace.

  ‘Sergeant said they were en route.’

  Harry noticed a raucous house-party in progress at number 156, a retro night judging by the noisy Abba anthem and glimpses of the party-goers through the window.

  Whatever he was walking into, he didn’t like how many people were in the area.

  They reached 140 Ashgrove and glanced at the house, then at neighbouring houses. No obvious CCTV.

  It was a three-storey Victorian mansion and by the looks of the poor upkeep, had been turned into student accommodation. Council bins overflowing, bin-bags on the floor, most of them torn open, their contents unceremoniously dumped beside a large mound of cigarette ends. Harry left Palmer by the front door and took a quick walk around the perimeter.

  No broken windows.

  No signs of anything out of the ordinary.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ said Harry, returning to Palmer, who was spinning the crowbar in his hands. ‘Too many people on this street. Too many unknowns. Where the fuck is the armed response?’

  ‘It’s only been ten minutes, Harry, they’ll be here.’

  ‘Come on.’

  Harry climbed the steps and glanced at the electronic keypad from which he could buzz flats A–D. The voicemail had mentioned flat B. Impossible to tell which one that was.

  Curtains to his right suddenly twitched and a boy appeared at the window; white, adolescent, scruffy.

  Harry removed his police identification, stepped closer to the window and displayed it clearly. He put his finger to his lips and pointed towards the front door.

  There was no movement from the fresh-faced student.

  Harry tapped on the window and again pointed towards the front door.

  The face vanished.

  A hallway light came on and Harry told Palmer to lower the crowbar.

  The front door opened and the student from the window appeared, wearing only boxer shorts. He looked back over his shoulder nervously but before he could shout to his flatmates about the police at the door, Harry pulled him outside, clamped his palm across his mouth and told him to be quiet.

  ‘I’m DCI Harry Virdee and I need you to be discreet. Understand?’

  Harry removed his hand.

  ‘What the fuck, man?’ whispered the boy.

  ‘What’s your name and which flat are you in?’

  The boy held Harry’s gaze, his eyes hard with anger. ‘Nathan.’

  ‘Flat?’

  ‘A.’

  ‘Which one is B?’

  The boy nodded towards the opposite ground-floor window.

  ‘Who lives there?’ asked Harry, watching as Palmer had a cursory glance at it and shook his head.

  ‘Curtains drawn,’ he said.

  ‘Asian girl,’ said Nathan, shivering in the night air in only his boxer shorts.

  ‘What’s she called?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Leila.’

  ‘You seen her today?’

  ‘Not seen her for ages.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shit, we all live here in self-contained flats. Don’t see any of the other residents regularly.’

  ‘Last time you did see her?’

  ‘I don’t know. Couple of weeks ago.’

  Two patrol cars arrived, both coming to a stop outside the house.

  Harry kept hold of Nathan but spoke to Palmer. ‘Tell them to park at each end of the street. Block it off. And chase up the armed response.’

  Palmer headed towards the cars and Harry dragged Nathan into the house, leaving the door wide open. Again, he gesticulated for the boy to be quiet.

  ‘This her door?’ whispered Harry.

  Nathan nodded. Harry watched his eyes widen as he focused on the door handle. Harry saw what had caused the alarm.

  Blood on the handle.

  Harry sighed and let the boy go, pushing him towards his flat. ‘Get inside. Close the door. Don’t come out until I tell you.’

  Palmer returned with two uniformed officers. Harry pointed to the blood on the door handle. He pointed to the staircase and whispered orders for the officers to stand guard; ensure nobody came downstairs.

  Harry took the crowbar from Palmer.

  ‘Armed response?’ he said.

  Palmer shrugged. ‘Any minute.’

  Harry shook his head and again pointed to the blood on the door handle.

  They couldn’t wait. Preservation of life was the priority.

  Palmer nodded.

  Both men removed gloves from their pockets, slipped them on and stood in front of the door. Gently, Harry tried the handle, his fingers on the section with no blood.

  Locked.

  He pounded his fist on the door, rattling it on its hinges.

  ‘Police. Open up!’ he shouted.

  Nothing.

  No sound from inside.

  Harry used the crowbar and in two forceful moves broke the door open.

  Darkness.

  He tried the light switch.

  Nothing.

  Harry took the torch from Palmer and shone it into the room; difficult to make anything out in the narrow beam. He took an apprehensive step forward.

  And then the smell hit him.

  Death. Decay. He ran his torch around the room again.

  Something crimson shone back at him in the darkness.

  Smeared across the wall, still glistening wet, was one word.

  Sinner.

  THIRTY-NINE

  THE HAIR ON the back of Harry’s neck stood on end.

  For the first time in a long time, Harry Virdee felt afraid.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the wall.

  Sinner.

  Harry remained in the doorway, Palmer at his shoulder. His feet felt leaden, fear pinning them to the floor.

  In the centre of the room, he could just make out what appeared to be the set for an Asian wedding. Four white pillars had been rigged to form a square around what looked like two golden thrones. The first was empty. But on the second was a young woman, slumped back in an exquisite red wedding sari.

  Leila.

  Her head was bowed, a veil gleaming with diamantés sparkled under the glare of Harry’s torch. He inched forward.

  Pink rose petals, similar to the ones at Usma Khan’s crime scene, lined the floor in a path right up to Leila’s feet. There were a dozen or so neatly wrapped gifts on the floor next to a silver tray which held the classic Asian wedding dessert, ladoos.

  The room had been cleared; a cheap bedframe had been dismantled, the wardrobes pushed up against the windows.

  Whoever had done this had gone to a lot of trouble.

  ‘What is all this?’ Palmer asked.

  ‘It’s a fucking wedding,’ Harry whispered.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘At least we know it’s him.’

  With no obvious threat in the room and still no sign of the armed response, Harry approached Leila’s body.

  He crouched to his knees and shone his torch over her. She had wedding mehndi on her hands. In her right hand, she held a rolled-up piece of paper.

  Harry shoved the tray of ladoos out of the way, moved a little closer and pulled a pen from his jacket pocket. He used it to lift the veil from the girl’s face.

  It’s him all right.

  Her eyes were stitched shut. The eyelids twitching.

  Wasps.

  Harry put down his torch, keeping the beam pointing towards the ceiling so he could use the light. He felt for a pulse but the girl’s skin was cold.

  Nothing.

  He lowered the veil and pulled the paper from the girl’s hand.

  An English marriage certificate.

  Blank.

  A sudden deafening blare of music made Harry jump. His feet crashed into the tray, sending the ladoos across the floor.

  It was Shenhai, the celebratory wedding music. Harry looked around the room, nothing.

  He stared into the darkness.


  A tiny red dot on top of the wardrobe.

  A camera.

  The killer was watching.

  As Harry approached, he saw a laptop connected to two large speakers.

  The music stopped.

  A pause.

  Maybe three seconds.

  Then a voice, loud and clear.

  ‘I see you Harry Virdee.’

  Harry stopped in his tracks.

  ‘I see all the sinners.’

  FORTY

  VIRDEE STANDS ALONE outside the house as the girl’s body is stretchered out.

  It is exciting being this close, watching how broken he looks.

  Broken?

  Not yet.

  Wait until he finds the gift I’ve left him.

  It was Leila’s eyes, that’s how I’d known. It’s always there in the eyes.

  That’s why I remove them.

  Sinners, each and every one of them.

  No shame. No honour.

  Harry’s eyes tell a story too.

  He carries pain there. Deceit. He’s not an honest man.

  What does he think, because he carries a badge, that means something?

  Not to me.

  I know all about him.

  This is a fight he was always destined to lose.

  I want to see that look in his face. When he loses and realizes this is the end.

  And it is coming.

  Soon.

  The autopsy on Leila’s body will be immediate.

  And they will find it.

  Hidden inside her eyes.

  The final piece.

  The city of sinners is about to fall.

  FORTY-ONE

  AN EMERGENCY ONE a.m. autopsy.

  Dr Wendy Smith and her assistant, Ingrid, had both been on call. Neither of them looked happy to be dragged from their beds.

  But this was a priority.

  Leila Amin had been stripped, her expensive, weighty wedding sari carefully bagged, along with the red and gold bangles which matched the outfit.

  Three dead girls in three days.

  A bona fide serial killer. And a quick worker.

  The case would be taken out of Harry’s hands in the morning.

  Gold Command took over anything this big.

  Frost would be taking charge. At least that meant he wouldn’t be grilling Harry any more.

  But Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to shrug the case off that easily.

  He had to pin down Gurpal. The elaborate wedding set-up. He was telling Harry a story. Of betrayal.

  A SOCO snapped dozens of pictures of the naked body. Harry could already see that Leila’s body was swollen like Usma’s had been. He was certain that, on closer examination, Wendy would find a puncture wound and they would learn Leila was allergic to wasps.

  Bruised ligature marks around Leila’s neck, the skin broken in dozens of places, led Harry to assume she’d been strangled post-mortem with barbed wire, similar to Usma, although they hadn’t recovered any wire from the scene. What was that about? Once the killer had watched them die, did he just need a release of aggressive energy? There was also bruising around her thighs and blood in the creases where they met her hips.

  Wendy was prepared this time. First she placed a scalpel by Leila’s head, then she arranged a large plastic bag across Leila’s face, tying it tightly around the top of the metal table so it formed a balloon. Anything that crawled or flew out of Leila’s eyes would be easily contained without any drama. Harry was impressed.

  Wendy then slid her hands under the bag and picked up the scalpel. Carefully she unstitched Leila’s left eye. She peeled back the lid and, just as before, a weak, bloodied wasp crawled out of the hollow socket, the eyeball once again removed.

  Wendy swiftly tied off the bag before fixing a new one to the table. She repeated the procedure on Leila’s second eye and a second wasp was captured. Neither one looked as if it had much life left in it.

  ‘Got you, you little buggers,’ Wendy said, and turned to Harry. ‘What now?’

  ‘Send them to Entomology, like before,’ said Harry.

  Ingrid handed the bags to the exhibits officer, who took them at arm’s length.

  ‘There’s something else here,’ said Wendy. She grabbed a pair of tweezers, carefully pinching a small piece of paper from the girl’s empty socket.

  Harry stepped closer as she unfolded it.

  ‘Not another one,’ he whispered.

  Apartment 624, Lister Mills.

  FORTY-TWO

  NINETY MINUTES AFTER leaving the mortuary, with the time approaching three a.m., Harry was at Lister Mills. He’d requested an armed response team to meet him there. Two teams had arrived. For now, at least, this was still his case so Harry had briefed the eight armed officers, each one carrying a sidearm and an MP3 machine gun. Once they entered the mill, Harry would have to take a back seat as they took control. This was their speciality.

  Lister Mills.

  Dawn had tipped them off about this place but the scale of the mill meant scouring the village-sized development would consume weeks not days, and they couldn’t simply lock the entire complex down.

  Perhaps now, they might have to. Their resources were being stretched like never before.

  The red tape around the CCTV and the landlord meant they still hadn’t received the footage they needed.

  This nutter could be doing anything in there.

  With robust orders given, Harry and three of his own officers followed the armed response team into the building.

  Inside, they moved quickly and calmly through the foyer. Four men headed for the stairs, three got into a lift and one remained downstairs. As he climbed the stairs, past exposed beams and brickwork, Harry felt his fear solidify in the pit of his stomach. His mind was racing.

  They were behind in this game.

  And the killer knew it.

  They were going in blind and Harry sensed they were about to witness something worse than anything the killer had thrown at them so far.

  The men exited the lift on to the roof of the mill where modern penthouse pods sat on top of the building. A bitter chill sliced at Harry’s face. He saw pink rose petals on the floor, similar to the ones at the other crime scenes.

  Harry and his team secured the area by the lift and the top of the stairs as the armed officers swept the roof, shadows in the night disappearing into the darkness, their torches bouncing off the steel. They returned a few minutes later and led Harry towards the end penthouse.

  The wind picked up, screaming across the roof, biting at the men’s bodies as they reached the end unit, apartment 624.

  Harry couldn’t shake his unease.

  The windows were dark.

  No signs of life at all.

  The lead officer buzzed the doorbell. Other officers fanned in behind. Weapons drawn. Harry and his team moved back. He glanced down the walkway but couldn’t find a CCTV camera. He did notice a camera just above the door to 624.

  There was no response at the door.

  Harry gave the order to enter.

  The front door was smashed in one fluid blow of a battering ram, the four-man team hurrying inside shouting, ‘Armed police!’

  Harry gave them a few minutes. Lights were turned on, rooms cleared.

  And other lights started to come on. Neighbours had been awoken by the noise.

  Harry whispered for one of his team to go and inform any residents stupid enough to come outside to return to their homes.

  Armed response called the all-clear and waved Harry inside.

  It was like walking into a glossy magazine.

  High ceilings, mezzanine floor, grand lighting. The furnishings were entirely gold and purple, like an elegant hotel.

  With no obvious threat, Harry stood down the armed officers. They’d wait outside for Harry’s team to find whatever they were here to find.

  Who lives here?

  In the living room, Harry caught sight of a set of wires dangling by the side of a telev
ision. A place like this usually tried to hide every wire possible. On closer inspection, Harry saw that they were likely to connect the CCTV to a recording device, now missing. Harry grimaced, the CCTV footage was gone but at least it proved whoever lived here was in trouble.

  ‘Boss! Boss!’ he heard one of his officers shout. Harry hurried upstairs and followed the sound of the voice to a master bedroom.

  ‘Who lives here?’ asked Harry, marching towards his DC.

  Harry was handed a photograph of a young woman with her arms around an older man, presumably her father.

  ‘Found this, boss,’ said the officer, and turned a large dressing table mirror which had been facing the wall towards Harry.

  Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

  He thought the scrawl on the mirror was blood at first but, on closer inspection, it looked more like deep red lipstick.

  Help me, Harry.

  ‘Who lives here?’ he whispered.

  The officer pointed to the picture in Harry’s hands.

  Harry didn’t recognize the girl in it.

  ‘Should I know her?’ he asked.

  ‘The father. Look at the father.’

  Harry focused on the man. Brought the frame closer to his face.

  ‘Fuck me,’ he said and shook his head. ‘Can’t be.’

  Harry put the photograph down. ‘Find something else!’ he snapped. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Anything else.

  Harry hurried to a desk in the corner of the room, his mind awash with chaos. He focused on a box file labelled, Important.

  Harry opened it and found a tenancy agreement.

  Aisha Islam.

  Images of the girl in the nightclub, crumpled on the dance floor, came unbidden to Harry’s mind.

  He turned the page and saw a guarantor’s signature, name and address.

  Tariq Islam.

  The contract quivered in Harry’s hand.

  ‘It’s true,’ he whispered.

  Aisha Islam was the daughter of Tariq Islam.

  The Home Secretary.

  FORTY-THREE

  HARRY REMAINED ON the roof of Lister Mills, his hands resting on the icy perimeter balcony. The wind continued to blow, but he welcomed the cold. Sometimes it was the only thing that could calm his temper.