The Wages of Sin (A Detective India Kane & AJ Colt Crime Thriller)

by Bo Brennan

  India knew of at least one Asian parishioner in Kings Worthy. Nazreem Sinder had a bible beside her bed and a crucifix above it. She went to say as much, but it lodged in her throat. Scratched a note on her pad instead. Smith and Wesson were good people, good cops. Too good to join her on the scrapheap… which is exactly where they’d be if they continued down this path. Sangrin would make sure of it.

  “You still there? India? Are you all right?”

  India cleared her throat and closed her eyes. Conning a civvy was one thing. Wilfully colluding with colleagues was something else, other coppers’ careers on the line. “I’m suspended. Don’t call me again.”

  She threw down her phone, irritated as a big fat tear rolled down her cheek and splashed onto the photograph. She rubbed the eye leakage away with her cuff . . . before realising it wasn’t even her cuff.

  What the hell was she doing? Sitting in Colt’s home, wearing Colt’s clothes, crying.

  He was too good for her too. Was changing her in ways she didn’t understand and wasn’t sure she liked. But it felt good. Right. Not everything that made her feel good was right.

  Only Colt.

  There was fuck all Sangrin could do to him. And he worked inside the M25, with a warrant card he’d unflinchingly use on her behalf. But without a real name or graduation date, it was useless.

  India thumbed the graduation picture. September. Six months ago. Could this photograph of two happy, smiley, glossy-maned women have been taken just one month before a shorn Shayla Begum joined Nazreem Sinder at the care home?

  Not really. Nazreem Sinder didn’t look puffy faced or pained. Six months ago she’d taken a week off sick to have her wisdom teeth out.

  Or had she?

  India sat up straight and sifted through the notes and documents spread across Colt’s breakfast bar, searching for the ones from discussions with the medical examiner on the day Sinder’s body was found. Freaky Fisher put the deinfibulation surgery scars at four to eight months old.

  Nazreem Sinder had had lip surgery six months ago, but it was nothing to do with her mouth.

  The Paedophile Unit, New Scotland Yard, London

  Clorindar Hussein perched tentatively in one of Colt’s office chairs, in stark contrast to her mentor DS Nathan Sharp. Nate was so laid back he was almost horizontal. “We’ve located the girls on Councillor Cooper’s computer, sir.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re all resident inside the M25.”

  Colt frowned. For online grooming offences that was highly unusual. “All of them?”

  Clorindar nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Seems he was targeting for ease of possible future contact offences,” Nate said. “All three of his victims attend the same school. Eerily, it’s the same school Kylie Jones attends.”

  “You think there’s something in that?”

  Nate shrugged. “Not sure. Big school, bad record. It’s no secret we rounded up the Pakistani groomers hanging around the school gates. Cooper’s offences started around the same time. Maybe he saw an opportunity to hide in plain sight and jumped on the bandwagon. Dude’s like a coastal weathervane. Every time the finger of blame points his way, a puff of hot air turns it.”

  “One of his victims is actually another National Front member’s daughter, sir.” Clorindar handed Colt a picture with a young girl’s face circled. “This girl here, Rosie Cromwell, she’s twelve.”

  Colt knew the picture well. So did the press. It had made his skin crawl when Miranda Ayres used it to fan the flames on Primetime Issues, doubly so now. At first glance, the girl – one of many wearing an ‘I’m not Halal Meat’ T-shirt – appeared surly, but on closer inspection her deep-set eyes were dead. Colt wondered if it was intentional that she was stood next to Cooper, his arm around her waist as he grinned at the camera after spewing his hateful rhetoric. “Does she know it’s him who’s been abusing her online?”

  “Not that I can find, sir. Cooper’s webcam remained off at all times. Viewing appears strictly one sided. His eyes only. There’s no doubt he knew who she was though. There’s evidence in his search history that he specifically targeted her.”

  Colt extended his hand. “Show me.”

  Clorindar handed over reams of printouts. Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, Twitter . . . the list was endless. The pervert had searched for her by name on every social network known. He’d even searched for the twelve-year-old on dating sites and hook-up app Tinder.

  “There’s an added complication there,” Nathan said. “Rosie’s father, Steve Cromwell, is currently banged up for a racially aggravated attack on a shopkeeper.”

  Sounded like a bonus to Colt. “What’s the complication?”

  “Same prison Cooper’s been remanded to.”

  Colt tutted. “Make sure the prosecutor’s aware.”

  Clorindar noted it on her pad. “It’s weird, sir. Cooper gets on well with the family,” she said. “I’m struggling to find his motivation for going after his friend’s daughter.”

  Colt handed the documents back. “He’s a paedophile and she’s a child. That’s the only motivation there is. Don’t waste your time thinking anything else.” He wanted to tell her not to think at all. Not about the perpetrators. Not to try and get inside their heads, seeking rhyme and reason, for there wasn’t any, and with that simple realisation came a darkness so consuming it withered a segment of your soul. But he didn’t. “What’s your plan going forward?” he said.

  “I thought the first step might be to approach the girls at school. Perhaps with a counsellor or social worker present?” She started out confident and assertive, trailing off and waning under scrutiny.

  Nathan frowned. “Her plan is to bin me, and take Maggie along to make first contact with the girls at school. Neutral turf, keep it informal, female to female, less cringe,” he said, punctuating the air and rolling his eyes. “And Clorindar also wants to wisely utilise the time Cooper’s on remand to introduce support services to his victims and gradually gain their trust.”

  Colt shifted his gaze back to Clorindar, could imagine her bending Nate’s ear as she passionately pleaded her case. “It’s a good plan, Clorindar,” he said, and glanced at his watch. “I’m off out in a minute. Work with Maggie to make it happen. I want face to face contact established with all of them by the end of the week. Well done.”

  Clorindar smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

  As they left, Nathan murmured, “You’ve got company, boss. And it ain’t happy.”

  Colt looked up as Commander Hussein ignored his niece and barged into his office, Doug Henderson at his back – a portent palm across his throat.

  “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” the commander said, throwing a copy of The Daily Herald on his desk. “Today of all days.”

  Colt glanced at the headline: ‘Top Cop Sent Butchered Lover’s Body Parts. Surviving Sister Tells All.’ He folded the paper and shoved it to one side. “Shall I instruct Met lawyers or my own, sir?”

  The commander’s eyes narrowed, seeking a subtext that didn’t exist. “You haven’t read it.”

  “Don’t need to, it’s bullshit.” He’d read it cover to fucking cover later though. Colt stood, checked his cufflinks and straightened his tie. “That’s assuming ‘Top Cop’ refers to me, and not you, of course.”

  Commander Hussein flipped his cap onto his head, eyeing him with contempt. “Today we have an official engagement with the Muslim community, Detective Chief Inspector. Why aren’t you in uniform?”

  “Because I’m not a pompous prick, that’s why.”

  Chapter 52

  London

  The convoy of unmarked cars pulled up outside the mosque. A podium at the base of the entrance steps trailed thick black cables from a microphone to a myriad of speakers. Press, and placard waving protesters, waited impatiently. In the front seat of Commander Hussein’s official car, Colt groaned. “Nothing like keeping a low profile.”

  The commander’s drive
r grimaced, sharing his long-suffering pain.

  Behind them, the man himself huffed his discontent, a potent mix of aged garlic and fresh spearmint singed the back of Colt’s neck. “I expected a much larger media presence,” the commander said.

  Beside him, Doug checked his watch. “There will be. The Home Secretary is giving her security statement now. By the time we leave, this place will be packed. You’ll have your audience, sir. Your command prevented the National Front blowing this place off the map.”

  Colt frowned and shifted in his seat. The last he’d heard a bomb recipe had been found on Councillor Cooper’s computer, sent from a far right contact in Europe. That was a far cry from a plot being established and a target ascertained. “How d’you work that out?”

  Doug Henderson grimaced. “Sorry, mate. Meant to tell you earlier, but things went awry. That bomb of Cooper’s was destined for here. On top of your shit, he’s been charged with terrorism offences this morning.”

  “My shit,” Colt said blandly.

  “For goodness sake, man, it’s a figure of speech,” the commander snapped, switching to turbo-charged prick mode. “Fumbling with schoolgirls is hardly in the same league as blowing up a mosque.”

  Colt stared at the man responsible for the Met’s Child Abuse Command, wondering exactly whose side he was on, and what planet. Cracking his knuckles, he tilted his head in the direction of Councillor Cooper’s NF supporters amassing on the street. The crackpots were currently pelting the anti-fascists with onion bhajis as the boys in blue struggled to get a grip. “You make that political play today, and this is going to get real nasty, real fast,” he warned.

  “Things get nasty, Detective Chief Inspector, when you open your mouth. Today I suggest you discover the many virtues of keeping it shut.”

  Before climbing out, Colt turned to the commander’s driver, and said, “Keep the car at the kerb and the engine running, please.”

  Portsmouth, Hampshire

  “Shareen didn’t tell me the whole story at first,” Priti said. “Just enough for me to test if she was telling the truth. Of course, she didn’t know if she could trust me either. I could’ve gone home and told everybody she was still alive.”

  “But you didn’t,” Gray said.

  Priti sadly shook her head. “I went home and tested what she’d told me. Told my parents I wanted to work abroad, put my education to good use. They told me my husband, her husband, wouldn’t stand for that. A good wife keeps a clean and tidy home for her husband and her children,” she mimicked in a peculiarly Asian accent Gray imagined was her folks. “The little Shareen had told me so far was true. She also told me not to argue, not to fight them. Just to leave. I wish I’d listened sooner.” She self-consciously tugged at the elfin hair behind her ear, as though trying to stretch it longer.

  Gray reached out and cupped her chin. “You’re beautiful, inside and out. Don’t ever let anybody tell you different.” She smiled coyly like a schoolgirl and he instantly withdrew his hand. “Tell me about the child he killed.”

  Priti stood and went to the sink, pouring herself a glass of water. “I didn’t know anything about her until after I’d run away,” she murmured, gazing out into Gray’s small garden. “Shareen couldn’t risk telling me. At my graduation she gave me an envelope to hide. Inside was two hundred pounds, a blank postcard, and the address of a church. A ‘place of safety’ she called it. Said if I ever needed her, get to the church, pin the postcard to the notice board in the porch and she’d come, day or night. I arrived battered and bruised at two in the morning, she was there in fifteen minutes.”

  The priest, Gray thought. When he finally met him on Friday, he’d be shaking the man’s hand. And seeking a better solution, so she could live openly without fear.

  “I had to run. There were only so many beatings I could take. It was a side of my parents I’d never seen before. And I’ll never see again.” Her shoulders shuddered as she drew an unsteady breath, and Gray realised she was crying. The loss of her parents’ love more painful than their complete and utter betrayal. “I miss them. I can’t help it, but I do.”

  He crossed the kitchen and knelt beside her as she sagged to her knees, her body jerking with sobs. A brutal far cry from the crocodile tears of Cara he’d grown accustomed to over the years. “It’s okay,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her.

  “I’ll miss you too,” she whimpered. “Under the bus I felt so safe with you there.”

  Gray’s heart clenched. Some of the strange and confused things she’d said under the influence of mind-bending pain relief, suddenly started to make sense. But he needed more to ensure her survival. With the enemy still unclear, the threat level remained off the scale.

  He straightened his leg and kicked out the chairs, pulling her down to lay beside him under the kitchen table as they’d done beneath the bus. Slowly but surely she calmed. “Tell me what happened, Priti,” he urged, entwining his fingers through hers. “Tell me about the child.”

  “A girl came to the house when he was at mosque. His mother answered the door. Shareen was doing laundry, changing the sheets. She saw her from the bedroom window, said she was a desperate looking thing. Soaked to the skin, her furry boots sodden and trodden down, no coat or umbrella to keep the elements at bay. And a ginormous baby bump she claimed was his. His mother didn’t believe it. Said a white, kafir whore carried no grandchild of hers. The girl said she was sorry, but she wanted her baby to know its father and its family, not to grow up without one like she did. His mother took off her shoe and beat her. Chased her from the property bleeding, calling her terrible names, and telling her never to come back.”

  Gray squeezed Priti’s hand when she closed her eyes, willing her to carry on.

  “Shareen was distraught. She confronted him when he came home. He denied it, but she said she knew. Knew him, knew when he was lying. A couple of days later, she saw the girl again, this time in the paper. She was missing. The day they pulled her body from the Thames, Shareen went to the police. I never saw her again, until she turned up at my graduation two and a half years later. Six months on, he found us both. I’m lying under your kitchen table and she’s laying on a riverbank in Bar End, dead and dismembered.”

  London

  While they’d been in the mosque, stroking egos and kissing arse, the protest crowds outside had morphed into an angry, seething mob. The Territorial Support Group, shields and batons raised, kept the warring sides apart, flanking a thin corridor of concrete – the escape route to their waiting car. Colt was pleased to see a shimmer of heat at the bonnet, and a ready driver at the wheel.

  Not so pleased to see the commander approaching the podium. “What the fuck is he doing?”

  Behind darkened Ray-Bans, Doug Henderson’s ever watchful eyes scanned the hordes. Twisted faces shouted and spat at them from all sides, their hatred palpable. They had no friends here. “Give him his moment. In his head he’s in Mecca leading the masses in prayer.”

  “He’ll be in pain leading the crucifixions in a minute,” Colt said. “If these lines falter, we’re fucked.”

  Doug nudged him closer to Hussein. “Worst case scenario we retreat to the mosque.”

  Colt looked back as the doors slammed shut, stranding them on their podium island in a surging sea of hate. “No we don’t. We’re on our own.”

  Planning a sermon instead of a statement, Commander Hussein pulled a wad of paper from his pocket and cleared his throat. A screech of feedback pierced the din, followed by a single shout.

  “MURDERER!”

  Colt didn’t see which side the shouter came from, which police line he breached, all he saw was a white man dressed in black, running at him, screaming ‘murderer’ at the top of his lungs. He instinctively dropped his head and charged, rugby tackling the assailant as gunshots cracked the air. Felt the wet, warm spray hit his face as they crashed to the ground. All around them angry yells turned to panicked screams as the crowd stampeded into flight.

&nbs
p; Colt hauled himself to his knees, shaking blood from his eyes, punching blindly, furiously, fighting for his life, but the faceless man beneath him stayed still.

  Down.

  Dead.

  Comprehension slowly dawned.

  Colt hadn’t been shot, his assailant had. Shot in the face multiple times.

  He slumped over and pulled back the man’s scarf, seeking a pulse. All he found was a dog collar.

  Chapter 53

  Park Gate, Hampshire

  India didn’t bother with pleasantries. “I need you to check the deinfibulation clinics for a name,” she said, as soon as the call connected.

  “Bear with me. Let me grab my list.” There were sounds of rustling paper before Nisha Fisher came back on the line. “Righto, fire away.”

  India frowned. “I thought a list didn’t exist.”

  “It doesn’t. I cobbled one together after we had dinner last week.”

  “Why didn’t you send it to me?”

  “When I didn’t hear from you, I figured those trust issues of yours had reared their ugly head,” she said silkily.

  India tensed. Nisha Fisher knew more about her than she should. “Why would I trust someone who keeps secret files on people?”

  “I don’t, India. The Home Secretary does. It’s in the nation’s best interests to monitor exceptional officers.”

  Now India knew the woman was talking shit, the only exceptional thing about her was how many disciplinary hearings she’d survived. “Save the soft soap, I don’t lather. You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble compiling a patient list, when you could simply skip down the hall and ask the NCA the dead woman’s name. What’s your real interest in this case, Mrs Fisher?”