No Way Home

by Jack Slater

  ‘Brilliant.’ He stepped forward and ruffled her hair. ‘How is he?’

  ‘He looks awful. Bruised and sore. He won’t admit he’s hurting, though.’

  ‘Where’s your mum?’ Pete set his briefcase down at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Front room.’

  He went through, Annie following. ‘Hi, Lou.’ He stopped, his memory flashing back a few months to the height of her depression, when she would sit just where she was now, just as she was now, eyes glued to the TV, unresponsive. Oh, God. His stomach swooped as fear swept through him.

  ‘Lou? You OK?’

  She looked up at him, her eyes haunted.

  Pete quickly sat beside her. He took one of her hands in his. It was cool and limp. ‘He’s back, love. And when everything gets sorted, he’ll be home. We’ve just got to stay tough a little bit longer.’ God, he hoped she could! That she wouldn’t slip back into the depression she’d suffered before. He looked up at Annie, a question in his eyes.

  She shrugged.

  ‘Go and finish your homework, love. I’ll come and see you when I’ve had a talk to your mum.’

  She hesitated, looking from one to the other and back again.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’

  Her shoulders slumped and she left the room while Pete turned back to Louise, stroking her hand. ‘He’s nearly home, Lou. And he’ll be OK in there. It’s one of the safest places he could be.’

  ‘Safe?’ She met his gaze, her eyes sparkling with anger. ‘You didn’t see him. The state he was in. All bruised and battered-looking. He didn’t look safe to me. Just the opposite.’

  His lips pressed together. ‘I must admit, I was surprised by that. They normally keep violence and bullying pretty much at bay. It’s one of the advantages of those places. They’ve got the staff to control it. But they’ll keep an eye on him now. I’m sure they will.’

  Louise slumped, the brief spark of fire extinguished. She was quiet for several seconds. ‘I just can’t work it out,’ she said finally. ‘Where did we go wrong? Tommy’s the exact opposite of Annie. I don’t understand how that can be.’

  He squeezed her hand gently. ‘Me neither, love. The only people who might claim to are the psychologists and they don’t have all the answers.’

  She straightened. ‘Then what are we supposed to do?’

  Pete pursed his lips. ‘I wish to God I knew. I suppose all we can do is show him he’s loved and wanted. What else is there?’

  The haunted look was back in Louise’s eyes as she met his gaze. ‘I thought we did that before.’

  ‘Well, we can’t very well ask him what he wants or needs, can we? That would be a weird conversation.’

  ‘But someone needs to.’

  Pete realised with a jolt that she was serious. And she was right. ‘Yeah, but who? Send him to a psychologist, he’ll think we think he’s sick.’

  ‘Humph.’ Louise seemed to be climbing out of the slump of depression. ‘It needs to be someone who understands stuff like that and can be a sympathetic ear, though. Surely there’d be someone at Archways that’d specialise in that sort of thing?’

  ‘Yeah, but can you see him opening up to anyone there? After what’s happened?’

  ‘Well, who else is there?’

  Pete thought of Colin Underhill, but he was having to play the bad guy for now, so that idea was dead in the water. Then another name popped into his mind. He glanced at Louise. How would she feel about the idea? Not many months ago, she’d accused him of having an affair with the person he was thinking of. A groundless and false accusation, made in the depths of her depression, but it had stuck in his mind nevertheless.

  Louise looked up at him. ‘You’ve gone quiet. What is it?’

  ‘I was thinking. Colin can’t do it now. Not with the case and that. And I can’t see it being in Dave’s skill set. But there’s Jane. Tommy knows her. Likes her. There’s no axe to grind there.’

  There was no reaction, Pete noted with relief. Then: ‘Wouldn’t she be in same position you are, being part of your team?’

  Pete shook his head. ‘If she goes as a friend, not a police officer…’

  ‘Do you think he’d open up to a woman the same as he would to a man?’

  Pete’s head tilted. ‘More, I’d have thought. Feelings and emotions are more of a woman thing, after all. With a bloke, he might not want to let on that he could be vulnerable. It would go against his pride. With a woman, that wouldn’t apply – at least, not in the same way.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but it’s got to be worth a try, hasn’t it?’

  Louise gave a deep sigh. ‘Maybe.’

  He couldn’t tell if her reaction was one of agreement, acceptance or resignation, but at least she wasn’t yelling at him. He chose to take it as a good sign. Leaning over, he kissed the side of her head and stood up. ‘Annie?’ he called.

  ‘Yes?’

  Her voice came from the kitchen.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked as he headed that way.

  ‘Homework,’ she said, as if it was a stupid question.

  Stepping into the kitchen, he saw her sitting at the table, her back to him, books open and pen in hand. He moved up behind her, wrapped his arms around her and gave her a squeeze. ‘So, tell me about it.’

  She put her pen down and turned to face him. ‘He was like a different person. He recognised us, but he was a stranger, you know? I didn’t say anything to Mum, but she must have noticed it too. She was quiet after we came out of there and just went into herself as soon as we got home. Back like she was before. I tried to pull her out of it, but…’ She shrugged. ‘She just wouldn’t respond.’ She looked up at him. ‘He will be all right, won’t he?’

  Pete nodded. ‘He’s in one of the best places he could be for now, love. There’s people in there – specialists – that can help him get better. Get back to his old self. And he’ll be coming home in a few weeks, hopefully.’

  She frowned. ‘Why “hopefully”?’

  ‘There’s something that needs to be sorted out, from when he was found. And it depends what happens in Mr Burton’s trial.’

  ‘How can it? It’s Mr Burton that’s on trial, not Tommy.’

  Pete sighed. ‘It’s complicated, love.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Rosie Whitlock says Tommy helped her get away. That he was a victim too. It doesn’t matter what Mr Burton says, if he tries to blame Tommy. He’s the adult. Tommy’s just a kid. He could make Tommy do whatever he wanted.’

  Pete smiled down at her as love flared with a fierce intensity in his chest. ‘You’re a gem, you know that?’

  ‘Mm-hm.’ She nodded.

  Pete laughed and placed a kiss on top of her head. ‘Don’t ever change, girly mine.’

  *

  Annie had been in bed for almost an hour. Pete had linked the two security cameras he had purchased to his laptop computer in the upstairs office – he had set them up on the front windowsills for tonight – and he was sitting with Louise, watching a documentary on the wildlife of Madagascar, when the phone rang in the hall. He got up quickly and went to pick it up.

  ‘Gayle.’

  ‘Pete, it’s Andy. There’s been another.’

  He recognised the voice of one of the station sergeants, Andy Fairweather. ‘Another what?’

  ‘Taxi driver killing.’

  ‘Where? When?’

  ‘Not sure exactly when, but in the last couple of hours. And where is down by the river. Friars Green.’

  ‘OK, I’m on the way.’ He put the phone down and stepped back into the sitting room. ‘Work. The taxi driver case I told you about. There’s been another one.’

  Louise looked at her watch. ‘What about St Thomas? It’s only a couple of hours or so until you’re due to take watch.’

  Pete had told her about Shafiq Ahmed and that he had accepted the next watch rota on his house. He shrugged. ‘We’ll get it covered by someone else, if need be. I’ll see when I get to the crime
scene, I suppose.’

  She nodded. ‘Be safe, OK?’

  He gave her a smile and a kiss, grabbed his jacket on the way out and headed to the scene.

  Friars Green was a modern luxury riverside apartment complex, including boutique shops and manicured gardens, across the river from the old quay. As Pete drove into the complex on Haven Road, minutes later, headlights shone into the back of his car. He recognised their shape and size. For once, he’d beaten the pathologist to the site, if only just. They parked next to each other and walked together towards the group of uniformed police officers that signified the presence of a crime scene.

  ‘We meet again, Peter.’

  ‘Evening, Doc. What have they told you?’

  ‘Just that there’s work for me here. Another taxi driver, apparently.’

  ‘Yeah. Same here.’ They both lifted their IDs as they approached the blue and white tape that cordoned off the immediate scene. The PC manning the tape lifted it for them and they ducked under. A break in the closely packed officers in front of them showed the dark shape of a car and the yellow light on top of it. A man turned to face them.

  Pete nodded to him. ‘Mike. What have we got?’

  ‘Deceased male in the driver’s seat matches the ID in the car, Sarge.’

  ‘And who reported it?’

  ‘A resident, returning home from the flicks. He’s over there.’

  Pete looked in the direction the uniformed man was pointing. A man was sitting in the back of a patrol car, the rear door open and another PC standing by him. He looked pale and shaken, even from a distance. He’d probably benefit from a minute or two longer.

  ‘Let’s have a look at the victim first.’

  The car was parked neatly in a space, about as far from a streetlight as you could get in the parking area belonging to the complex. Looking over Doc Chambers’ shoulder, Pete saw that the driver’s seat appeared to be in the correct position for him. He was slumped back in it, his head tipped back against the headrest, a curtain of blood like a bib down the front of his shirt. More blood was sprayed across the inside of the windscreen and over the dashboard and steering wheel. It had dripped down and pooled in the footwell.

  Although he was pale from a combination of death and blood loss, the victim was an Indian male.

  Another Indian male.

  Was that significant? Given that the majority of taxi drivers in the city were of that ethnic origin, if the two deaths were linked, then was it about race or simply about taxi drivers? Or was there another link he hadn’t seen yet?

  ‘What’s the verdict, Doc?’

  Chambers didn’t look up from what he was doing. ‘Single cut to the throat. No hesitation marks. Like the other one, a thin, sharp blade was used. Unlike the other one, I don’t detect any lingering odour of pepper spray, but I have taken swabs and I’ll check further, back at the mortuary.’

  Even from a few steps back, Pete’s sense of smell was overwhelmed by the ferrous stink of blood. It would be easy to miss a lingering hint of pepper spray under that, he imagined. Especially if it had been a while since it was used. ‘Any idea how long he’s been here?’

  ‘Body temperature and the blood spray would suggest no more than an hour. The meter there might tell you more.’ He nodded at the taxi fare meter on the far side of the body.

  ‘Still running?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Right. I’ll go and have a word with the bloke who found him.’

  Approaching the patrol car with its rear door still open, he saw that the occupant was probably in his thirties, dressed in a casual but expensive-looking shirt and dark trousers. His dark hair was carefully styled, his pale features clean-cut. He didn’t look up as Pete approached. His gaze was turned inward, eyelids half-closed.

  Pete nodded to the officer standing by the car.

  ‘I understand you found the body, sir,’ he said.

  The man registered his presence and looked up at last. He blinked. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You live here?’

  ‘Juniper House.’ He waved a hand vaguely, indicating the block behind him, overlooking the river and the footbridge across to the old quay with its pub, antique emporium and archway shops and cafés.

  ‘And your name?’

  ‘Danny Byford.’

  ‘So, tell me what happened, Danny. How did you come to find him?’

  ‘I was on my way back from the multiplex. I dropped my girlfriend off at her place, drove back here. That’s my car.’ He indicated a small Japanese sports model parked a row in front of the taxi. ‘I saw the taxi there. When I got out of the car, I noticed the engine was off. I looked over, could see the guy’s face – how his head was tilted back. I thought maybe he was asleep or something. I went over and…’ He gave a shuddering breath. ‘I saw why it was only his face I could see from a distance. All that blood…! So I called you guys.’ He lifted his right hand, which was clutching a mobile phone.

  ‘And you haven’t been up to your flat since then?’

  He looked confused for a second. ‘No. The man on the phone said to stay put, so I did.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else here, before the other officers arrived?’

  Danny shook his head. ‘No. There’ve been a few people since. Residents, I suppose. But not before. Why?’

  Pete shrugged. ‘We have to get as full a picture as we can. OK, Danny. You get off home now. We’ll be in touch if we need to ask you anything more.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Danny stood up out of the car and headed away, still looking dazed.

  Pete would get the time of his 999 call from the call centre. Then, in canvassing for other witnesses, they could be accurate in finding out if anyone had been seen leaving the area. In the meantime… He looked across the square to where a small group of people stood at the police tape. Heading towards them, he let his eyes scan the onlookers, searching for any abnormal behaviour, anyone who looked out of place or nervous, anyone who looked as if they were not simply curious.

  As he drew near to the tape, he saw no one trying to slip away in the darkness. ‘Evening, folks,’ he said, hands raised to include them all. ‘If anyone saw anything out of place around here this evening, anything unusual, anyone they haven’t seen before, please come and tell me or one of the other officers here.’

  As he was talking, the white panel van of the forensics team arrived and disgorged the already white-overalled investigators.

  ‘What’s happened here?’ a female voice asked from the small crowd.

  Pete tried to spot her, but couldn’t. ‘There’s been a death. At this stage, all I can tell you is that it appears to be suspicious. Officers will go through the complex shortly to ensure your safety. In the meantime, as I said before, if anyone has any information, no matter how innocuous or irrelevant it may seem, please do let us know.’

  He stepped back from the tape and headed over to the forensics van, where the scientists were donning caps, shoe covers, gloves and masks before approaching the scene. He recognised the plump figure of the chief technician, his glasses gleaming in the intermittent lights from the police cars around them. ‘Evening, Harold. How’s it going?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Gayle.’

  ‘I won’t delay you, but give me a call when you’re done, yes?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Pete moved on to where Tony Chambers was just stepping back from the car and removing his gloves. ‘Any more news, Doc?’

  ‘Nothing helpful. Just the one injury. No defence wounds. It appears the attacker was in the back seat. The efficiency of the killing might suggest premeditation, but beyond that, we’re into your territory.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’ Pete pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves and stepped around the other man to the open door of the victim’s car. He leaned in and used his phone to take a picture of the ID hanging from the driving mirror. Checking the door pocket, he stepped back and moved around to the passenger side. Carefully opening the door, he checked the
glove box but found only the car’s owner’s manual, a pen and notepad, and some chewing gum. Next, he photographed the meter, followed by the dead man’s watch. The two together would give them a timeframe in which the victim’s last passenger must have been picked up.

  Looking up, he saw the white-suited forensics team approaching, aluminium cases in hand. He stepped back from the car, taking one last photo of the licence plate on the rear. ‘All yours, Harold.’

  *

  Pete parked a few yards down from the cab company’s office and walked back up. As he stepped away from his car, a crowd of people began to emerge from the old cinema beyond his destination, most seeming to come towards him down the narrow side street, filling the pavement and spilling out across the narrow cobbled roadway as they chatted and laughed, voices echoing off the surrounding buildings.

  Pete stepped between two parked taxis in front of the office and eased through the flowing crowd to the open door.

  Two men were sitting inside, cups of tea in hand, while a woman perhaps ten years older than Pete, stocky, with rough, smoker’s skin and way too much make-up under a thatch of bleached-blonde hair, sat behind a desk with a phone console and radio mike in front of her. She looked up as he entered.

  Pete nodded and was lifting his ID from his pocket when he was barged from behind by a guy in his late twenties with his shirt hanging out of his trousers and a girl in a short, sparkly dress hanging on his arm.

  ‘We need a taxi to the university.’

  ‘In a sec, son. You weren’t the first in here.’ The woman’s voice was rougher than her complexion; almost masculine.

  Pete held up his warrant card. ‘Don’t mind me. I don’t need a ride.’

  She nodded and looked across at the two drivers sitting at the side of the room. ‘Amrit?’

  One of them shrugged, set his mug down on the window ledge and stood up.

  Pete watched him leave, the giggling couple trailing after him, then turned back to the woman. Checking the photo on his phone, he asked, ‘Do you know a Sunil Pati?’

  ‘You know I do, or you wouldn’t be here.’ She thrust her chin at the remaining cabbie across the scruffy little room. ‘That’s his brother. What’s he done?’