by Bo Brennan
“I knew it,” he whispered, lowering himself to the dark wooden bench. His sad eyes took her in, coursing every inch of her body and face. “You’re the image of her,” he said, his attention settling on her arm. “I’m so sorry they hurt you too.”
Shayla glanced down at the conspicuously clunky plaster cast. Even with her over-stretched cardigan sleeve pulled down to cover scabbed knuckles, the angle the hospital had set her arm at made the injury difficult to disguise. “It’s nothing,” she said warily. “It will heal.”
The priest made no attempt to hide his sorrow as it spilled freely from his eyes. “I prayed we’d never properly meet,” he said. “But I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure you would.”
“She told me only to come if . . .” The ache in her throat wouldn’t let the words out. She swallowed hard and cast her eyes to the floor. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s no shame in crying for those you love.” He patted the hard, uninviting seat, beckoning her to sit. Shayla sat beside him, strangers united in grief. His voice trembled as he clasped her hand and bowed his head. “Pray with me.”
“Pray?” She snatched her hand away and sprang to her feet, fury flashing in her eyes and pain stabbing at her ribs. “How can you still believe in Him when she is dead?”
“It wasn’t God who took her life.” His voice was smooth and sincere but his words were patronising to her ears.
“They were doing His will in His name,” she spat.
“No! No, they weren’t. This is the work of the devil!” The priest gripped his head in dismay and rose to his feet as he regained his composure. “I don’t even know what I should call you,” he softly said.
Shayla hesitated, not sure if he even knew her real name. Naz had trusted him, but she was no longer here. Shayla would never trust a man of God again. Not now, not ever. “You can call me Shayla.”
He took a deep breath and exhaled wearily. “We must find it in our hearts to forgive those corrupted by dark teachings, Shayla.”
Shayla’s body went rigid. “How can you defend them? They chopped her into pieces and set her on fire!”
He winced as though hearing the details of her death for the very first time, and something flashed behind his eyes – something raw and real. “I’m not defending their actions,” he said. “I’m just trying to make sense of their motives.”
“Don’t bother,” Shayla said through gritted teeth. “There’s no sense to cold blooded murder, and we both know the motive.”
“She still had faith you know, after everything.” He smiled and his face lightened with fond memories Shayla wasn’t privy to. “She understood it was warped values and teachings that drove their crimes, not God.”
“And look where it got her.” Shayla straightened her shoulders. “I brought passport photos. She said you would help me. Will you?”
“Of course.” He dried his eyes and took the photos she offered. “You’re not alone, Shayla. I promised her I’d be here for you, but you can’t run forever.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” he said fiercely. “You were the bravest choice she ever made. The day you graduated was the proudest day of her life.”
Shayla’s breath caught in her throat. “She told you about that?”
“I was there. I was look-out.” He gave a coy smile. “You’d be surprised how many women I turned away from that rest room.”
Shayla remembered every moment of that day. The emotional rollercoaster of elation and disbelief. The twists and turns that lurched her stomach and filled her heart with the lightest of joys and the darkest of fears. She remembered his eyes, happier then, as she stumbled through the maintenance man’s mop and cones, fleeing the university toilets in a haze, unsure of what was real anymore – except that her life had been tipped upside down and shaken violently. The excited, naive young woman she’d awoken as that morning, full of anticipation and hope, was a long distant memory, a lifetime ago.
“She lived to protect you, don’t let her death be in vain,” the priest said, clasping her hand. “You can change things.”
“How?”
“We could go to the press . . .”
“With what – a tall story and not a shred of evidence? Now she’s truly gone there’s nothing tangible left.”
“The police then . . .”
Shayla felt like she’d been sucker punched. “You know I can’t do that!” she said, snatching her hand back. “If I wasn’t dead before I reached the door, I’d spend the rest of my life behind bars.”
He turned to the altar and clasped his hands tightly together as he raised his eyes to his phantom Lord, seeking divine intervention with manic mumbled prayers.
Shayla sighed and placed her hand on his shoulder. She understood his well-meaning intentions, but they were pointless. Misplaced. Things were as they were. The only thing she needed to concentrate on was staying alive. “You’re doing all that you can, and I appreciate your help,” she murmured. “But I need to go. Prayers will be ending soon. I have to get off the streets. How long will it take?”
“Seven days,” the priest said, turning to face her. Shayla rubbed her brow in frustration. The priest spread his hands in acknowledgement. “The good Lord even granted forgers and fraudsters a day of rest,” he said. “Stay here. I’ll keep you safe.”
Shayla sadly shook her head. “She said that too. That’s why she’s dead.”
Chapter 28
London
“Guv,” Maggie murmured, nodding at the rear-view mirror.
Colt shifted in the passenger seat to see the unmarked van approaching from behind, a convoy of squad cars in its wake. “What the fuck,” he mumbled as the balaclava clad driver pulled alongside and saluted.
He climbed from the car and directed the mass of uniformed units to clear and seal the road, before banging on the back doors of the van. As soon as the doors opened, a gush of heat and body odour sprang free, along with a scowling Inspector Pauline Slater from the Specialist Firearms Unit. “Christ, it stinks in there,” she groaned, cradling her MP5.
She wasn’t wrong. Colt grimaced and took a step back. “What are you lot doing here?”
“NCA said you needed back-up, chief. Ta-da,” she sang cheerily. “Back-up has arrived.”
Colt’s brows bunched together. “I was expecting a few riot shields from the TSG, not full-on armed support.” The Territorial Support Group’s lighter touch was the absolute maximum he needed to maintain order. This was beyond heavy-handed. SCO19 were armed to the eyeballs and ready for Armageddon. “Why did they send you? There’s no intelligence of firearms. We’re not prepared for this. My team are only equipped with stab vests,” he said, nervously watching them swarm from their cars under Maggie’s command, a megaphone hanging loosely in her hand.
Pauline shrugged. “They’ll be fine. No firearms, no firing. No problem.” She followed his line of sight and snorted a laugh. “As if Maggie Bevan needs that.”
“It’s for me,” Colt said running a hand across his jaw, internally debating whether to send the Specialist Firearms Unit packing or maintain them as a useful deterrent. “I want to communicate with the crowd. Keep things calm.”
“You worry too much,” Pauline said casually.
“It’s warranted,” Colt returned. Someone had to worry how eight hundred Muslim men were going to react to what could only be viewed as an unprecedented armed siege on their place of worship.
Pauline checked her watch. “Five minutes to kick off. It’s too late to call in the girly gang and their fantastic plastic shields now, chief. It’s us or nothing. Better to be safe than sorry,” she said with a tilt of her head.
She was right. Resigned to SCO19’s armed involvement, Colt beckoned his team over. “DC Hussein will be spotting.”
Pauline Slater raised a brow and turned her eyes on Clorindar, silently sizing up her petite frame. “We’d better get the wagon over here then,” she said, and directed the squad
car positioned opposite the mosque’s front doors to switch places with the firearms van. “You want this?” Pauline asked, holding out her balaclava as the spotter’s new, higher vantage point manoeuvred into position.
“No thanks.” Clorindar studied the insurmountable wall of steel. “How do we do this?”
“The old-fashioned way,” Colt said. He interlaced his fingers and dropped his hands, palms up for Clorindar to use as a step. She didn’t hesitate. Braced herself against his shoulders and stepped up, clambering onto the wagon’s bonnet. Colt watched as she nimbly scooted up the windshield to stand fearlessly on the roof. His chest swelled with pride. She was one of his. A definite keeper.
“Kid’s got balls,” Pauline Slater said, grinning at him.
“And you’ve got bullets,” Colt said. “Anyone gets near her – use them.”
“Yes, sir.” Inspector Slater gave a sober nod at his sudden change of tune, pulled on her balaclava and secured her helmet. Slinging her MP5 across her back, she hauled herself onto the bonnet and followed Clorindar’s path up the wagon’s windscreen to stand beside her on the roof.
Colt’s radio crackled to life. The street was sealed and cleared of bystanders. Marked units blocked pedestrian and vehicular access fifty metres in every direction. Uniformed officers were in position at the building’s rear emergency exit in case their targets fled. He glanced at his watch. With two minutes to go until prayers ended, he signalled the firearms officers into position. As they filed out of the van and formed a wide sweeping arc around the entrance to the mosque, Colt turned his attention to his own team. Today they were armed only with paperwork and blind trust in the spotter to help them serve it on the right person.
“You all know your targets,” he said, feeling the added tension the firearms unit brought to the task in hand. “No heroics. If the shit hits the fan, you all hit the deck. Understood?”
“Understood,” they chorused.
Colt glanced up at the two officers on the roof of the wagon. Clorindar Hussein focused intently on the mosque’s closed doors as she adjusted her headset. Pauline Slater gave him a firm thumbs-up. “Then let’s get the job done,” he said, relieving Maggie of the megaphone.
As one, his unit moved forward and stepped inside the arc, strategically positioning their bodies between the gun-toting ninjas assigned to protect them. Adrenaline pumping, the air was charged. Colt planted his feet wide and rolled his shoulders against the restrictive stab vest snug against his torso, the sweet, lingering sting of India’s nails providing a comforting, and timely reminder of the need to return home unscathed.
“Nothing personal, big guy,” he murmured, glancing up at the clear blue skies. And then dropping his sights to the mosque, he took a deep breath, and counted down the remaining seconds aloud. “3 – 2 – 1 . . .”
Kings Worthy, Hampshire
India passed the bus stop and turned into the quiet little cul-de-sac just yards away.
She drove slowly around the central turning circle of closely clipped grass, craning her neck to read the door numbers on the twelve houses arranged in six blocks of semi-detached red brick. When she found number seven she pulled into the designated parking bay and cut the engine, surveying the property’s frontage from her seat.
Everything looked pretty standard, no body parts rotting on the lawn.
According to the care home’s messed-up personnel files, both Nazreem Sinder and Shayla Begum lived here. Two apparently unrelated women loosely connected through work. But according to the Tax Office, Shayla Begum didn’t work at the care home at all. In fact, Shayla Begum didn’t exist.
A paved path brought India to the front door. She knocked twice. Nothing. Rang the bell. Nothing. Called through the letterbox. Nothing, not even a sinister smell called back. But a peek through the narrow slit revealed a smattering of unopened mail and flyers littering the hall.
India’s eyes roamed the cul-de-sac. Couldn’t see any curtains twitching in the neighbouring properties and the scarcity of cars in bays indicated few people home.
She followed the path to a tall timber gate at the side of the property and peered over into the postage stamp of a back garden. The uninspiring low-maintenance ensemble of raised borders and concrete paving slabs was enclosed by five-foot-high fence panels. Unless the adjoining neighbours were exceptionally nosey, the rear of the property was nicely secluded. Which was handy. Very handy. She gave the rusty latch a sharp tug and it lifted, the gate swung back inviting her in. India tutted as she closed it behind her. The NCA were a shower of shit. If this woman was in a witness protection programme, it was no wonder she was dead. A decent lock on the back gate was basic home security for dummies.
Confirmation of complete and utter incompetence came in the form of a uPVC double-glazed back door, a cat flap positioned way too high. So far, so insecure. What’s the betting? she thought, crouching to slide her arm through the cat flap. She shook her head in disbelief when her fingers touched on the key in the lock, plucking it free.
With a cursory glance around the garden, India let herself in.
The back door opened directly into the kitchen. It was small and unremarkable. Contained all the basic white goods. A place for everything and everything in place. Pokey but perfectly functional.
A single bowl, spoon, and mug sat in the bone-dry sink. Whatever had been left in the bottom of the mug now wore a green and white spotted fur coat. She poked the hard orange lumps welded to the inside of the bowl with the door key, then tentatively lowered her head and sniffed. Long dead cornflakes. Wherever Shayla Begum had gone after she’d discharged herself from the hospital – it wasn’t here.
India wandered down the small hallway and kicked aside the junk mail to pick up the unopened post, all addressed to Ms Sinder. Definitely Nazreem’s place. And Nazreem Sinder was definitely dead. The earliest postmark was Saturday – arriving on Monday, after she’d left for work. India shoved the letters in her bag and continued to the only other room on the ground floor, pausing briefly to admire two brightly coloured artworks adorning otherwise bland beige walls. Framed pictures of Asian effigies with hippy-hijacked fingers and garish head gear.
The Asian theme continued into the perfectly square lounge where the ugliness of a tatty old chocolate-brown sofa and chair were shrouded by colourful ethnic throws. The addition of a simple coffee table and stereo cabinet left no room to swing a cat.
At some point, someone had attempted to add character by framing the dated coal-effect electric fire with a cheap MDF surround. It didn’t work. Mounted above the eyesore of a mantle was a modest sized flat-screen TV, a small red light indicated it was on standby.
India dumped her bag next to the stereo cabinet and bent down, flicking through the handful of CDs it housed. She liked being alone in other people’s places, enjoyed secretly learning about their lives, more so when the opportunity arose because they were dead. The dead couldn’t hurt you. And in India’s experience, learning how the dead had lived was the key to fathoming why they’d died.
All she learned here was that the resident lived parsimoniously and had crap taste in music.
Three strides out of the lounge took her back to the front door and the base of the stairs. She placed her boot on the bottom step and started as it creaked, spooking her in the stillness. “Hello? Anyone home?” she belatedly called out. When the wind didn’t even whisper in the eaves, she cautiously climbed to the first floor.
There were two doors on the landing – both stood ajar.
She peered around the door to her left and into a tiny beige bathroom, noting just one toothbrush in the holder above the sink. Meant the place was one bedroom, with only one resident. She pushed open the door to her right, making sure the bedroom was clear before stepping inside.
A neatly made double bed was pressed against one wall, a small wooden crucifix above it. Definitely only one resident unless they crawled over each other to get in bed at night. A built-in wardrobe held a few female clothes.
A bedside table housed a single lamp and a well-thumbed King James Bible.
She slid open the bedside table drawer and frowned. All it contained was a paperback copy of Fifty Shades of Grey, its concealment an interesting juxtaposition to her displayed bedtime read. India opened it at the bookmark, read a few lines and placed it back down with a grunt. Her ‘inner goddess’ would be wearing Colt’s testicles for earrings if he tried that shit with her.
So far, she had learned Nazreem Sinder was a frugal, sexually-oppressed, single Asian professional with crap taste in music, a strange taste in religion, and she hadn’t been home since Monday. Unsurprising since India was now confident she’d turned up dead on a Winchester riverbank on Wednesday morning after being abducted on Monday night. But she’d learned nothing on her active case. So where the hell was Shayla Begum?
Her eyes shifted to the dressing table. Pride of place, dead centre, sat a single framed photograph. India lowered her head and drew a sharp intake of breath. Now she was getting somewhere. Things were finally starting to make sense.
The care home manager needed to get her head out of her arse – Nazreem Sinder and Shayla Begum were so alike they could only be related. But who was who? The two women immortalised in the photograph were virtually indistinguishable – if you ignored the silly hat and garb the one on the left was wearing. India lifted the frame and looked a little closer. It didn’t help that they both had long hair and were smiling so broadly they each looked fit to burst, but something did separate them. Their eyes. The one on the right looked older, heavier, like she’d somehow seen more. Suffered more. India flipped the frame in her hands and looked at the back, hoping for an inscription. No such luck. Unclipping the clasps, she tugged the photograph free, and found nothing written on the reverse of the image either.
Then she froze at the sound of the front door opening.
Shit. There was no way out without coming face to face with whoever it was.