‘Ouch.’
‘It was the nastiest break I’ve ever seen. She was in agony. The helicopter managed to get her from close to Innominate Tarn.’
Johnny had been with Cumbria Mountain Rescue for approaching eight years. He’d moved to the Lake District after a decorated career as an army officer. That was what had destroyed his marriage to Josie’s mum. He didn’t talk about it often, but he had told Kelly bits and pieces about tours in Iraq, Kosovo, Bosnia and Afghanistan. It was no surprise that he’d ended up somewhere quiet, isolated and beautiful. He looked like he’d always lived in the fells: rugged and strong.
‘Are you on call tomorrow?’
‘Yup. We both need an early night. I suppose you’ve got to keep your phone on?’ he asked.
‘Sorry. I’ll understand if you want to go back to yours.’
‘I’ll call Josie to see if she’s all right.’ He left the room.
When she’d worked for the Met in London, Kelly could stay up all night figuring out who, where, when and why, but now she had found a renewed love of sleep, thanks to Johnny. They divided their time between his place and hers and when they were apart, she always slept badly.
She could feel her eyes drooping and the wine kicking in, and she reckoned she’d drop off quite nicely. She prayed that Penrith had a quiet night. If it didn’t, she’d be the first to hear about it. She normally tried to ignore press reports, but the town was awash with them, speculating and frowning upon the sharp downturn in society’s morals in the twenty-first century.
That was all bollocks as far as Kelly was concerned. People had been knifing each other since time began; the only thing that changed was access to information. Reporters stuck phones and microphones in her face all the time at crime scenes, but this was major news. The capital was seeing the highest knife crime rates since records began and the provinces weren’t far behind. But no one, anywhere, had any solutions. The government said they were funding police to tackle it. The police said they had no resources. Community groups blamed the police. Politicians blamed the opposition. Parents blamed each other. Kids blamed adults. Schools blamed class sizes and lack of respect. Pupils blamed teachers. Everybody and nobody was to blame.
But still people kept on getting stabbed.
Kelly dried herself and put on a huge bathrobe. She heard music playing downstairs and felt lucky to be alive. She had survived so far, and she marvelled that fate had dealt her a fair hand up until now. As she rubbed moisturiser into her face and neck, and examined her new wrinkles, she reflected on the chances of someone born on the Beacon Estate escaping and making a different life. It happened, obviously, but not enough. It seemed that kids were tethered to their environment for life and no one gave two craps. If lads from the estate did turn out to be responsible for the stabbings, how would society deal with them? Throw them away and fend off the blame?
Probably.
She had no idea what the ingredients were for happiness, but she was sure, from the monthly stats that flowed into her office, that on the Beacon Estate, right now, somebody was getting raped, someone’s house was being broken into, a child was being filmed for a cheap porno, and a baby was being neglected. If she dwelled on it too much, she’d break.
She went downstairs and sat on the sofa next to Johnny. He’d got a fire going.
‘Is Josie OK?’
‘She’s staying at Callum’s.’
‘Again? Do his parents mind?’
‘They say they’d rather that than they sneak around.’
‘Fair enough.’
They’d both met Callum’s parents and they were good people.
‘Would you rather have the TV on?’
‘God, no, I don’t want to hear about how fucked up the world is.’
He smiled. They listened to old classics from Moby, Coldplay and James Morrison.
Within ten minutes, Kelly was asleep.
Chapter 10
Jackson rolled over and looked at his watch: it was too fucking early. It was barely light and he realised that it was Thursday: he’d slept right through. He felt refreshed and decided to get up and make something to eat. He was constantly hungry. He stretched and put on a hoody, then went to the kitchen. He switched on the TV; the early-morning news was on.
He was just about to open the fridge, but stopped when he realised what the news segment was about. A woman was dead, stabbed in Potton Park yesterday. He wondered idly if it was a drug deal gone wrong. She could have been buying or selling, it didn’t matter which. It was a fool’s game. Jackson smoked the odd spliff and drank too much booze only occasionally, not wanting to let go, but it wasn’t his life. Some people just got addicted and it overtook everything. He didn’t like the way drugs and alcohol made his body feel: they sucked the life out of him and made a gym session disappointing.
He’d discovered the gym four years ago, when he was sixteen years old. It changed his life; gave him a purpose apart from hate, and focused his mind and his body. It earned him his nickname: ‘Guns’ Akers. It was why people left him alone; that and the knowledge that he was no threat. He didn’t want to fight, that wasn’t why he worked out. He listened as the newsreader said the woman was from the Ullswater area and had a family. It didn’t add up. This wasn’t some estate nobody.
He opened the fridge and found some roast chicken. He put water on to boil for pasta and checked his phone. He was ready for a training session, and the gym was only a ten-minute cycle from his flat. A message popped up, a request to make a collection, and he rolled his eyes. He rarely said no. He could be in and out in under ten minutes and still get to the gym before opening the garage at nine o’clock. That was where he fixed bikes. He didn’t reply to the text: that wasn’t how it worked. It was assumed he’d be there.
A noise outside caught his attention, and he went to the window to see what was going on. It sounded like a scrap, an argument. It was common enough to witness spats between teenagers, or worse, proper fights between rival gangs. But they rarely happened on the estate; they were usually carried out in previously arranged remote areas on the coast or down in Barrow-in-Furness. Members came in a steady stream from the villages and towns of the north of England: directionless boys, misunderstood and forgotten.
The closest rival gang was in Barrow. They were simply known by their family name, the Rawlinsons, and had terrorised the streets of the town for decades. Five of them were languishing at Her Majesty’s pleasure for drugs and weapons offences. They carried on the business from inside the penal system, and word had it that they quickly became the top dogs there too. As a result of the incarcerations, though, the Rawlinsons had gone quiet, leaving the Cotton brothers, Jason and Adam, to strengthen their links to main players in Glasgow and Manchester.
Surprisingly, it was the brothers who were causing the fuss outside, along with Tyrone Fenton, a harmless enough kid who was Jackson’s long-time buddy, and a few hangers-on. Tyrone was a good person, he just made bad decisions. It looked like they were arguing over a girl.
Jackson rolled his eyes: this wasn’t going to end well. He was about to walk away from the window when Jason Cotton slapped the girl in question and she staggered backwards. He closed the curtains, but he could still see through the gap. He knew the girl. She lived in a flat in Wordsworth Towers. He watched as Jason Cotton tried to give Tyrone something, but Tyrone just shook his head. He appeared terrified and Jackson wanted to do something for his friend, but instead, he continued to watch helplessly as Jason Cotton shoved Tyrone and the lad fell backwards. Meanwhile the girl was held as Jason thrust his fist into her time and time again. But Jackson soon realised that it wasn’t just his fist.
He watched the girl fall, and the men, including Tyrone, run away.
He stepped away from the window and stared at the window. He swallowed hard and realised that his palms were clammy. He became aware of a bubbling noise and turned to the cooker, taking a spoon to stir his pasta, cursing when it stuck to the bottom of the pan. Whatev
er had just happened, he wanted no part of it. There was no helping her anyway. Jackson had seen enough people stabbed to know that the girl had no chance. Somebody else would find her and report it. She must have done something bad. Maybe it was debt. Maybe it was sex. Fact was, if you messed about with the Cotton brothers, you were nowhere close to being a nice girl. Playing with fire got you burned. It was a fact of life. But Tyrone had been part of it.
He ate his pasta, then went to pack his gym bag and left via the rear entrance. As he got his bike out of the lock-up downstairs, he heard screaming and assumed that somebody had found her. He looked at his watch: it was 6.15.
He cycled away.
In ten minutes, he was at the rendezvous point. He came to an abrupt halt when he spotted Tyrone, and thought about turning round, but then he saw his friend’s face. He took a quick glance around and was satisfied that they were alone.
‘What the fuck happened?’ he asked. Tyrone seemed smaller inside his hoody, his face half-hidden. Jackson had his hood up too: it was standard practice in case anything went down, and it just had.
‘You have to take this,’ Tyrone said. He handed Jackson a black bin liner. ‘Hide it.’
‘What the fuck? Mate, you OK? You look like shit.’
Tyrone looked scared and shocked, and well he might. Jackson was sure he hadn’t seen the hit coming: the girl was Tyrone’s, and he knew he’d never hurt her, but she’d clearly done something.
He didn’t let on what he’d seen. ‘What did you do?’
‘It’s not mine.’
‘Whose is it?’
Tyrone looked at him; he’d spent far too long there already. ‘Jason’s.’
Jackson looked behind his friend and saw the Cotton brothers sauntering towards them, faces, hands and heads covered. He saw no blood. It was Jason who spoke.
‘No questions, Guns.’
Jackson took the package and cycled away, not looking back. He threw a glance over his shoulder and noticed a camera situated on the corner of a building. He hoped it was damaged.
Chapter 11
Kelly was woken by her phone at 7.30 a.m. Johnny groaned next to her. She sprang out of bed, hoping that it was a new lead. No one would wake her unless it was something important. Maybe they’d discovered some CCTV. She answered the call. It was the duty officer at Eden House; they’d received a call from a local squad patrol attending the scene of a 999 call: a fatal stabbing on the Beacon Estate.
It was the last thing Kelly expected to hear.
‘Jesus. Fill me in, I’ll go straight there.’
‘Female, early twenties, mixed race, no witnesses, no weapon at the scene and no one’s talking.’
‘Typical. Address?’
Johnny rolled over and put his hand out.
‘There’s been another fatal stabbing, this time on the estate itself,’ she told him. That woke him up.
‘Christ, do you think it’s a pattern?’
‘I’ll soon find out.’ She bent over to kiss him. He held her, and she felt his warm body beneath her and wished she could stay.
‘I’m going to have a quick shower,’ she said.
‘It’s a big shower, I’ll come with you.’
She thought about protesting, but Johnny knew the difference between making love slowly and making the most of an opportunity. They weren’t about to break any records for tantric sex, but they both needed the connection. It was a good job she’d intended to wash her hair.
Twenty-five minutes later, she was on the road and using her blues to cruise through the traffic to Penrith. As a police officer, driving into any of the rough estates in Penrith was daunting. Beacon was the worst. She pulled a bobble hat over her wet hair and fastened her Rab jacket. The air was bitter, but quite a crowd had gathered in the early-morning light. It was a residential area, so this time there must surely be witnesses. But getting them to talk was quite a different matter.
The woman was still in situ. Ted was going to have a busy day. Kelly parked and showed her ID. Uniforms, on scene long before her, questioned the small crowd, as well as keeping an eye on any brewing trouble.
She went inside the erected tent and spoke to the CSI, who was sketching the scene.
‘She was stabbed and left to bleed out,’ he told her.
‘Who found her?’
‘A woman going to work at the local petrol station. The victim was unconscious by then, so we don’t have a time frame yet. I’m assuming it was quick, given the amount of blood and the lack of rigor. Also the public location: she’d have been found quickly in the middle of a housing estate, where people are up and about getting ready for work.’
Kelly wondered how many people on the Beacon Estate were actually leaving for jobs, but left the thought alone. The location was less than a mile from where Ella had been stabbed yesterday. She’d have to consider if they were connected. It was easy to assume, simply because of the weapon, location and victimology: lone women.
Her phone rang and she looked at the name on the screen. Superintendent Ormond. Fuck.
‘Kelly. Are they connected?’
‘Sir, with respect, I’ve only just arrived on scene. I’m not making any assumptions.’
‘I thought I could give something to Thomas Watson.’
‘No, sir, I wouldn’t do that at this early stage. The demographic couldn’t be further apart. I doubt there’s a link.’ What the hell was he playing at?
‘I went to see him last night. I promised him we’d have this wrapped up quickly. I’m glad he’s agreed to do a TV appeal. Let me know the arrangements; I’ll be there.’
Kelly rolled her eyes as she hung up. She wondered if Cumbria Constabulary, like the rest of the UK, had been given new targets to limit knife crime. She had no idea what they were supposed to do if some twat wanted to knife a woman in a park. The problem was bigger than telling kids not to carry weapons. They needed investment in education, housing, social welfare and community projects to tackle the issue. But that was all political, and way out of her control. Two fatal stabbings in less than twenty-four hours, though. No wonder Ormond was pissed off.
She turned back to the crime scene. ‘ID?’
‘Yup, she had a loyalty card on her for the supermarket on Bridge Street, 8 Till Late. Name’s Keira Bradley. Address is up there, number thirty-two.’ The CSI pointed upwards at the block of flats overlooking the scene. ‘A woman in the crowd who was here before we erected the tent ID’d her and confirmed her address.’
‘Right, I’ll go and chat to her now.’
Kelly walked round the body. It was the second victim in as many days that she’d seen motionless and pale from blood loss. The woman’s face was passive; her eyes stared dead ahead. She still had her handbag beside her. So not a robbery then. The bag was being photographed and searched; it was where they’d found the loyalty card.
‘Ma’am.’ Kelly glanced up to see who’d addressed her. It was the forensic officer who was going through the handbag. He held up a thick roll of banknotes and a small clear plastic bag containing dried herb: probably weed.
‘How much do you think is there?’ she asked.
The officer unfurled the notes and did a quick calculation. ‘About five hundred quid, ma’am.’
‘Bag it and tag it.’ Couldn’t have been a drug debt either.
Kelly went back outside the temporary tent and looked up at the flats. The line of sight was extensive. She counted at least twenty windows with a good view of where Keira had been stabbed to death. There were walkways, lift shafts and stairwells close by. She walked over to the uniforms taking statements from the public and asked if they’d had any witnesses come forward yet.
‘No, ma’am.’
She’d experienced the same reticence before, in London, during her Met days. Sprawling housing estates, as tall as they were wide, all stifled by some silent code. It was almost impossible to find a snitch, and then to be sure they were a reliable one. It wasn’t a good start. She understood that door-
to-door information-gathering had already begun in Wordsworth Towers, the building where Keira lived. A log was being compiled of all the properties and who lived there.
One of the uniforms pointed out the woman who’d ID’d Keira. As Kelly walked towards her, the woman looked nervous.
‘You live around here?’ Kelly asked. The woman nodded. ‘What number?’
The woman pointed. ‘Up there, number forty-eight.’
‘So, near to Keira then. How well did you know her?’
‘Kind of, not really.’
‘Did she have a job?’
The woman laughed. ‘Nah.’
So no explanation for the five hundred quid.
‘Do you know how old she was? Family? Boyfriend?’
The woman looked even more fidgety.
‘She had a boyfriend? Name?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Rumours?’
‘Maybe.’
‘We can do this the easy way and have a cosy chat, or I can take you in under caution as a material witness. You ID’d her; that makes you my closest associate at the moment.’
‘Fuck off, man! You not taking me nowhere.’ The woman backed away, but pulled her phone out of her pocket. ‘Have a look on Instagram. You’ll find everything you need right there.’ She showed Kelly the screen and she made a note of Keira’s Instagram account.
‘I need to go.’ The woman looked around, scared now. Two uniforms stood close by and she knew she had no choice but to cooperate. That didn’t necessarily mean telling the truth.
‘Did you hear anything?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Do you know anyone who heard something?’
‘Nope.’
‘Did Keira live alone?’
‘No, her mam is ill, on disability allowance. She looked after her.’
‘In the same flat?’
‘Obviously, man. Jeez, you stupid?’
Kelly ignored the bravado. She turned away and spoke to a uniform. ‘Has anyone been inside Keira’s flat yet?’
Little Doubt Page 6