‘No, ma’am.’
‘To inform her sick mother of her daughter’s death?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Jesus.’ She called Eden House to see if an informing officer was available. If not, she’d have to do it herself. The answer was negative. She grabbed a uniform to accompany her.
The stairwells were shabby and stank of piss. The doors to the flats were, by and large, dated and unloved. They came to number 32 and knocked. They knocked a second time, and eventually the door was opened. The woman could have been forty-five or eighty-five. She was ravaged by neglect and a poor lifestyle. A waft of stale air accompanied her and she looked puzzled to have visitors. She used a walking cane.
‘I’m not buying nothing,’ she said. Then she saw the uniform. ‘What do you want?’
‘We’re looking for a parent of Keira Bradley. We were told that this is her address?’ Kelly was struck by the contrast between this victim’s home and what Emma and Rob had reported about Ella Watson’s. It was as if everyone expected tragedy to occur here, but not to someone like Ella. It was jarring. She wouldn’t say there was a nonchalance in the air; rather a sense of inevitability.
‘What’s she done? I’m her mam.’ The woman leant on the door frame in a surly manner.
‘We’ll need to come in, Mrs…?’ Kelly showed her ID and formally introduced herself.
‘That bad, is it? It’s that boyfriend of hers, no doubt. She wouldn’t listen to me: always hanging round the bad ’uns. Come in, then.’ The woman moved aside. ‘And it’s not Mrs nowt. It’s Sharon Bradley.’
As Kelly stepped inside the flat, she had to give the appearance that her stomach wasn’t churning in reaction to the range of interesting smells inside. There was cigarette smoke, body odour, questionable evidence of bodily functions, as well as animals. She heard scratching in a cage, and a cat sat lazily on a windowsill. Sharon Bradley limped to a chair. Kelly forced herself to sit down and concentrate on the devastating information she was about to deliver.
‘Sharon, I’ve come here to give you some very bad news.’ She kept the script factual; they always did.
Sharon eased into the chair and tutted.
‘I’m terribly sorry to have to inform you that your daughter has been identified as the victim of a stabbing. A fatal stabbing.’
They waited.
The woman laughed. ‘Are you pulling my leg?’
Kelly said nothing, just slowly shook her head.
‘Where is she? Who says it’s her?’
‘A neighbour, and this loyalty card from 8 Till Late.’ Kelly held the evidence up in a plastic bag so Sharon could see it.
‘Where is she?’ Sharon’s voice increased in pitch and volume and she tried with difficulty to stand up. It was a shock response, and until the liaison officers arrived, Kelly or the uniform, who both had work to do, would have to stay and make sure she was all right.
It began to dawn upon the woman that they were telling the truth. The tears came, and Sharon’s face was a picture of confusion and anguish, closely followed by anger. It was genuine emotion, and Kelly could see that despite the state of the place, Keira Bradley was loved.
‘Oh God, I can’t breathe.’ Sharon was on the verge of hyperventilating. Her chest flushed pink and she repeated half-sentences as she slumped back in her chair. This wasn’t the worst of it, though. Kelly knew that that would come after all the police, investigators, doctors, specialists and support officers had packed up and gone home, leaving the real grief to begin: the sorrow in the middle of the night that lurked in every thought and every face. The torture of losing a loved one through violence never stopped.
‘Can I see her? Where is she?’ Sharon appealed to the two officers.
‘Do you think you’d be able to make a formal identification as her next of kin, Sharon? It would be at the hospital. At the moment, our inquiries are live and ongoing, and we need to gather evidence from people who might have seen anything.’
‘You mean she was taken to hospital?’
‘She died in the street, Sharon. I’m sorry. She passed away before the ambulance arrived.’
‘I heard it! I thought it was the police. Any time there’s trouble, I don’t even look out the window. I could have…’
Kelly gave Sharon time. Then she continued to push little by little. She had to form a picture of Keira.
‘How well do you know your neighbours?’
The woman reached for a handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and blew her nose.
‘I want to see her. I want to hold my baby. The neighbours? Why?’
‘I know, Sharon. I’ll make arrangements for you to see her as soon as possible. I’m asking because we’re having trouble finding anyone who heard or saw anything like an argument or a mugging, or something of that nature. You mentioned a boyfriend?’
‘Ding Dong, Dinger, something like that. He’s bad news. Not a bad lad, but mixes with the wrong ’uns. No fucking surprise that no one’s talking to you. You’re hated round here.’
‘I know.’
‘You wait till I get hold of some of those kids who skate up and down and smoke their drugs. I’ll collar ’em. You wait, I’ll get a fucking queue of ’em to talk to you.’
They sat in silence. Kelly took stock of the woman in a fresh light, given her emerging grit. She no longer looked as unwell as she had when they first saw her. Sharon Bradley’s hackles were up, and it gave her guts.
‘Did she suffer?’ Her voice was quiet.
‘The medic told me that it was quick. The weapon hit a major artery. She would have lost consciousness almost immediately.’
Sharon wiped her eyes, then stood up suddenly. Kelly watched as she paced up and down. She didn’t use the stick.
‘Little fuckers!’ she exclaimed, rushing to the front door. She picked up the cane and went outside, screaming at the top of her voice. ‘You little bastards! You fucking butchers!’
Kelly and the uniform charged after her and found her leaning over the railing, waving the stick at anyone who might be able to hear her warnings.
‘I’ll skin you all alive! You!’ She spotted someone walking down below. ‘Tell ya fucking friends to find out who did this to my Keira, or I swear I’ll get the lot of you!’
‘Sharon…’ Kelly began, but Sharon ignored her and made her way to the stairwell, banging on doors with her stick as she went, yelling threats and obscenities. She was drawing a crowd, and Kelly let her rant on. It was working; the woman was reaching more people – in more extreme ways – than the police ever could.
As she carried on downstairs, Kelly knew what was coming. ‘Get in front of her,’ she told the uniform. ‘Block her from the tent.’ He nodded and ran in the direction of the forensic tent. Sharon rounded the corner and the group of nosy neighbours that had begun to disperse stopped and watched the show.
‘You!’ she screamed in people’s faces. Her rage was having the desired impact. Bystanders listened and reassured, promising to ask around. They calmed her down, and one woman invited her into her flat. Sharon agreed. Kelly went to her and gave her a card.
‘I’ll be in touch, Sharon. You’ll be assigned a liaison officer.’
‘Don’t want one. I just want to see Keira. Wait a minute, is she in there?’ She looked at the tent suspiciously. The woman who’d invited her in tried to hold her back, but Sharon shoved her off. People recorded on their mobile phones.
‘It’s a crime scene, Sharon, you can’t go in.’ Kelly blocked her path and Sharon crashed into her, bouncing back in amazement and confusion. A uniform arrived from nowhere and helped her steady herself. She got the message. The woman might have an enormous gob, but she wasn’t getting past Kelly. There was also the CSI and a uniform at the entrance to the tent.
‘Come on, Sharon, let’s get out of here,’ the other woman said.
Kelly watched as the pantomime drew to a close and Sharon allowed herself to be led away, exhausted, having vented her passion for now. It was a touch
ing scene, and she felt powerless.
The crowd began to disperse as more officers arrived and imposed further perimeters. Kelly made sure that the scene was secure and went back inside the tent to start her own assessment.
‘Overkill, ma’am,’ said the CSI.
She went to him and knelt down next to Keira. The initial search was for evidence, weapons, a life-extinct verdict and a general feel for the layout, but now, having examined the body before it was bagged properly and sent to the mortuary, the medic had confirmed over a dozen wounds, consistent with what the police called overkill – or pure rage. That type of crime was almost always committed by somebody known to the victim: the complete opposite of the Ella Watson MO.
Chapter 12
The brothers swaggered towards the corner shop with a self-assured dominance. They flicked hand signals as they chatted and kept their hoods up. An elderly woman came out of the store and stared at them. She was at least a foot shorter than both men and her shoulders hunched over from years of gravity. She clutched two shopping bags closer to her.
‘What’s up, love?’ Jason Cotton asked her. He opened his arms and stood in front of her. The woman tutted, and scuttled around him and away.
‘Suck my dick!’ Adam Cotton shouted after her. She picked up her pace. The two men laughed and performed some kind of fist ritual in self-congratulation.
When they went inside the shop, the proprietor looked up from his crossword and froze. It was that time of the month again, when the Cotton brothers wanted paying, but he’d never seen them so early in the morning. They looked high on something, and as if they’d been up all night. He’d toyed with calling the police, and he’d spoken to his wife about hiring his own thugs, but there was no getting around the fact that the brothers controlled the estate. His only option was to sell up, but no one in their right mind would buy. It galled him to the core that these two young men, who should be earning an honest wage from a legitimate day’s work, exercised so much power. The tabloids had started reporting from estates where even the police wouldn’t go: Beacon was one of them. He never saw patrol cars any more. The place was a lawless enclave of illicit trades and delinquency, and the authorities had neither the resources nor the inclination to care.
He didn’t say a word as they helped themselves to crisps and bottles of fizzy drinks. They came to the counter and Jason, the elder of the two, leant over it.
‘Get us two hundred fags.’
The man did as he was told. His profits were dwindling before his very eyes and he was being bullied into submission by a pair of children. His blood boiled.
‘And the rest?’
He knew they meant money. He gave them five hundred pounds every month and it hurt his accounts keenly. He reached under the counter for the envelope, then stopped.
‘What’s up, old man?’
Under the counter, the man kept a hammer and a large mallet in case of burglaries. If he could have got hold of a gun, he’d have that too. He took one weapon in each hand and stood up.
‘Get out of my fucking shop, you little bastards.’
The brothers burst into laughter and mimicked him. Adam lifted his sweater and the man saw a long knife stuffed in a kind of makeshift holster. Sweat formed on his brow, but he couldn’t go back now.
‘Get him, Adam,’ said Jason.
The man moved first and he was quick. The brothers responded, separating, so that by the time the man emerged from behind the counter, he was flanked on both sides. Adam took out his knife.
‘You wanna hurt, old man?’
‘My CCTV is on!’ the man shouted.
‘We don’t fucking care.’
As the man looked frantically between the two, Jason struck him on the head with a wooden club he’d brought out of his jacket. He went down like a sack of shit and the brothers stared at one another. Without speaking, Adam went to the office out the back and checked the CCTV monitor. He found what he was looking for and pulled it away from the unit in which it sat, removing the disk from the drive. When he got back, Jason was straddling the guy’s chest, punching him in the face.
‘Fucking hell, Jay, you’re gonna kill him.’
Jason stopped. ‘Nah, then he wouldn’t be able to pay. Let’s go.’ He got up and stepped around the body of the man he’d beaten half to death. The man groaned, and they knew he was alive, for now. They cleaned out the till, then took the envelope and left.
As they walked away, they heard a scream from the shop: the old man lived upstairs with his wife, and she’d probably found him. Maybe this would teach them both a lesson.
‘My fist hurts,’ said Jason.
‘No fucking wonder. You should have knifed him.’
‘We don’t want another fucker dying yet. The pigs are already crawling around.’
‘Did you see Sharon Bradley on YouTube? She’s a fucking nutcase.’
‘Don’t worry, she won’t find nothing, and no one will tell her. Come on, we’re late.’
They walked along swigging from their bottles, then threw them aside to gather with all the other bits of rubbish lying at the side of the road. They crossed to a dark alleyway and went into it. Beyond that was an abandoned industrial estate. It had once housed a paper factory as well as a shoe outlet. The buildings were in a sorry state, with doors missing and windows smashed. It was a favourite hangout for junkies, though not all the rooms were used by them. The smackheads tended to gather in huddles to keep warm, and it was the upper offices that they monopolised. The brothers headed for the car park to the rear, where a vehicle waited for them.
They didn’t know his name, only his face and his voice. And his hands. They were always clean and looked manicured, and they stayed on the steering wheel. He never got out of the car; he just gave them verbal instructions and packages. Occasionally he’d accept a request from the brothers and say he’d look into it. But the relationship revolved around mutual convenience. The police stayed away from the estate, and in return, the brothers tidied up here and there. As they’d done with Keira Bradley.
‘You fucked up, boys. Who killed the woman in the park?’
‘What woman in the park?’ Jason played the cocky ignoramus. Adam remained quiet.
‘It’s all over the fucking news!’
‘We don’t listen to the news.’
‘Find out. She was jogging in Potton Park and she was stabbed to death. I want names. Coppers are going to be swarming all over this place, so you better be careful. Was it clean?’
‘Yup.’
‘Good. When you were told to make it two, you should have done your fucking homework. This changes everything. Take this and plant it on somebody, anybody; just get it done. Remember to unpack it carefully.’
Jason took a black bag from the man and shoved it under his jumper. The window went up and the car drove off. He used a different vehicle every time.
‘Google that woman,’ said Jason. Adam got his phone out.
‘Fucking hell.’ He read out the details and looked at his brother.
‘Do you know anything about this, Adam?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t fucking piss me around, fam. If you’re involved, I’ll fuck you over. I know that face. You better do as he says and get that over to Tyrone. Here.’ Jason passed the black bag to his brother and walked away.
Chapter 13
The search of the pond in Potton Park was scheduled for 10 a.m., and Kelly decided that she might as well stay in the area. The pond was a three-minute stroll from the tent where Keira Bradley lay dead. Sharon Bradley’s display had hit a nerve, and the uniforms going door-to-door were getting a more positive response than they had at first. Everything was recorded to be inputted on HOLMES later. Now she had two murder investigations running side by side and she knew it’d test her mettle, as well as her organisational skills.
Back at Eden House, things were moving in the right direction. An old man had come forward to report that he’d seen Ella in her car, and that sh
e’d clearly been scared by a couple of hooded yobs – his words – hanging around the pay-and-display. CCTV footage was available for the car park, and it had been confirmed that the unit was fully functional, which was a result. The man was a resident of the Beacon Estate. Ted had left Kelly a message late last night that Ella’s autopsy was taking place this morning. She called him and he’d already been informed of the second murder. He confirmed that if the body was released from the scene in time, he could autopsy the second victim today also. On another note, he wanted to know if Kelly would like to go to dinner at his place with June and Amber, her half-sisters. Of course, Josie and Johnny were invited too.
She called the police underwater search team in Lancaster and they confirmed their schedule. Next she looked at the statement from the man in the car park and clicked on the CCTV footage sent to her by the data controller for Penrith Council. She saw Ella walk towards her car and felt a pang of grief for her and her family. She wondered how the kids were getting on. In the footage, Ella got into her car and two young men, their faces shielded, make sexual hand gestures to her. To Kelly’s surprise, Ella flicked the bird at them and drove away. In his statement, the man said that the woman in the car, who he’d seen on the evening news, had made a rude gesture to him, but that when he saw the two young men, he understood why. Both of them were in hysterics. The footage could lead somewhere and needed to be followed through, but the two men in the clip were unidentifiable, due to their dress and the angle, so they’d have to rely on public witnesses.
Statements had also been taken from the Apple Store staff, where Ella had been before noon yesterday to get Jordan’s phone fixed. The two members of staff who’d been on duty remembered her because the morning had been quiet. They reported no unusual behaviour or anxiety and said that she had been friendly and chatty.
Kelly sent an email to Kate Umshaw, who should be in the office by now, updating her on her movements. Kate could run the ship at Eden House in her absence. Rob Shawcross’s task this morning was accompanying the forensic team to the Watson house. They’d been booked in this afternoon to search Keira’s apartment too. Sharon Bradley didn’t mind; she had other priorities now, such as canvassing the entire estate.
Little Doubt Page 7