DEAD WRONG a gripping detective thriller full of suspense

by Helen H. Durrant

  “What would you like, Inspector?” Julian whispered conspiratorially in Calladine’s ear — playing to the room. “What can science add to the mix that plain old detection can’t?”

  Tom didn’t have time for the scientist’s odd sense of humour, or his beliefs that science alone could solve a case. He gave him a look that said so, clearly. Forensic science was important, vital if they were to get the right outcome in court. But if forensic evidence was all they had to go on, then half the cases would have stayed unsolved. Calladine trusted his instincts. He had a sort of sixth sense, or perhaps it was something that had developed over the years with experience. But to date it had never let him down. “Do you have anything else or not?” he demanded tersely, knitting his brows.

  “Well, I have a name.” Julian Batho announced this proudly, and almost took a small bow as a buzz of response flew around the team. “Ian Callum Edwards.”

  “Ice.”

  Calladine’s response was almost immediate.

  The buzz got louder. They all recognised the name, and knew the young man it belonged to. All, that was, except Dodgy.

  “Ice?” He turned to Imogen beside him.

  “A well-known young thug and drug dealer. Ice is his nickname,” she explained. “You see the word written all over the estate — you know, graffiti. It’s written in great big bubble letters and painted blue. It’s his tag.”

  “We got a match on his DNA almost immediately,” Julian told the team. “Once Doctor Hoyle took a closer look, we could also see what the tattoos on his fingers spelled out — his initials.”

  Calladine gestured for the team to be quiet, as Julian continued.

  “Then there was this.” He handed Calladine a photo. “This is an image of what we found on the receipt, and it’s got nothing to do with the supermarket. Our man is leaving us his mark, a tag of his own. His signature.”

  Calladine felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He didn’t like this. Those instincts were at it again. They were warning him that this case would turn out to be something big, and very unpleasant.

  The mark was a miniature imprint of a bloodied hand made by some sort of stamp that had been inked — in this case with bright red ink. A bag of severed fingers, a bloodied hand; the message was plain enough. And it was nothing like anything he’d seen before on the Hobfield.

  Calladine felt his stomach heave and he almost gagged. This wasn’t Fallon; this wasn’t how that particular gangster operated. Fallon wouldn’t leave a mysterious mark to puzzle the police, or anyone else. Fallon’s style was a good kicking, enough to put the boy in hospital for a few days, then tell everyone about it.

  Why the gang graffiti, what did it mean? This was a tag he hadn’t seen before — if that’s what it was. Was this a show by some new thugs on the block? It certainly seemed that way at first. A takeover. Or was that what they were supposed to think? Were they supposed to believe that someone tougher, smarter, had come along, and this was the new method of punishment?

  “I’ve seen this somewhere,” Rocco said, as the photo of the bloodied hand was passed around. “I’ll have to check it out, but I’m sure it’s daubed on the gable end of the off licence on Circle Road.”

  “Gang tags are serious business,” Imogen explained to Dodgy. “They send out a message to rivals, the law and anyone else who fancies their chances. It’s like a code saying ‘keep off, this is our territory.’”

  Tag aside, they now had a name, and a link to the crime. All very neat, but perhaps a little too neat. And that was exactly like Fallon; putting someone else in the frame was a favourite ploy of his. The DI’s head was full of conflicting ideas.

  He had that feeling again. It wasn’t rational, given what little they knew, but he had the feeling that this latest atrocity was being flaunted in their faces. That the perpetrator was playing some sort of catch me if you can game with them.

  “Okay, this changes things. We need to know when Edwards was last seen. Ruth and I will go to the Hobfield and visit his mother. We’ll tell her the bad news and appoint a liaison officer to stay with her. We don’t want any of this getting out, not yet. I don’t want Donna Edwards, or any of you talking to the press. We’ll deal with them as and when we have to.”

  The team was mostly in agreement, but Ruth did wonder if, on this occasion, having some publicity might help.

  “He has a girlfriend — Kelly Griggs,” Calladine continued. “She and Edwards have an infant son, and she’s got a flat in Fieldfare House, the smaller of the tower blocks. We’ll visit her too. I want to know the last time she saw him. Don’t mention the find to her, not yet, not until we know what we’re dealing with.”

  He transferred his gaze to Rocco. “You and Dodgy visit the Masheda family.” This was said with a grim edge to his voice. “Young Malcolm in particular. As I recall there’s not a lot of love lost between him and Ice, not since Kelly.”

  He thought for a moment and then looked at Imogen, who was making notes. “I’m afraid that leaves the CCTV,” he apologised, knowing that this would mean hours of watching endless tapes. “See what you can do with it.” He smiled. “Also do as Ruth suggested, give the chemists in Leesdon and town a ring. See if anyone’s been in asking for advice or bought large amounts of dressings in the last few days.”

  It was a long shot, but they couldn’t treat this as anything but a serious assault until they found Ian Edwards, dead or alive.

  “Right, folks!” He raised his voice above the chatter. “Back here at five for an update. Okay?”

  * * *

  “How d’you all cope?” Detective Sergeant Don Thorpe asked Ruth, as the team meeting broke up.

  He was a sergeant on the station’s other team of detectives. For the last few minutes he’d been standing by the door, chewing gum, listening to the proceedings, and eyeing the incident board with interest. “All he’s got is a bag of fingers. Anyone would think it was the crime of the century.”

  “He does a good job. So keep your sarky comments to yourself. He’s a good boss with a good team.” She tapped his chest lightly. “And it’s not just a bag of fingers, either. It’s probably murder.” This was confirmed with a nod. “Jealous, Thorpe?” She smirked. “That fat lazy sod you work for wouldn’t know where to start.” She was referring to Detective Inspector Brad Long.

  “That ‘fat lazy sod’ would just round up the bloody lot of them and have done with it,” Thorpe snorted. “Time in the cells, that’s what the animals need.” He sidled away, back to his own desk.

  “He doesn’t sound very impressed.” Dodgy was watching him go.

  “Take no notice. He’s all mouth and suit, that one. They’d give a month’s salary to have the clear-up rate our team’s got.”

  Chapter 4

  She was just sat there, on the pavement outside the café, smoking. Why? Why was Kelly dressed like that? She looked like a common tart in that top, that ultra-short skirt . . . and why the apron? Suddenly he understood — she must work there. She’d got herself a job serving greasy burgers and coffee in that back-street shit hole. That’s why her hair was scraped back in that unflattering way. But why would she do that? Why would she need to get a job, and what had she done with the kid?

  He felt the nerves start. His hands were shaking, and that sick feeling in his stomach was back again. This was all his fault. He watched her take a last pull on the cigarette. He watched as she threw it to the floor, stubbed it out and then straight away, sparked up another one. She was chain smoking. Had he driven her to this? With her hair like that she looked all pinched and pale. She was frightened.

  He hated that idea. What was she afraid of? She’d nothing to fear, not from him, he would never harm her, not after what she’d done for him — for them.

  Why the job? He didn’t want her to work; she shouldn’t have to. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and thought. Why, why, why? She needs the money — of course she does; she has to eat. That must be it. Ice couldn’t provide anymor
e, could he?

  All his fault — all his fault. The words filled his head, mocking him and blocking out the noise of the traffic. He had to think. He had to think fast; he had to do something to make it right for her.

  The traffic lights changed, he’d have to go, move off. One last look, and she was still sat there, still smoking. He knew what to do now. It came to him in a flash. He’d give her the money, Ice’s money.

  * * *

  Malcolm Masheda’s tall frame swaggered across the open ground between the tower blocks. He walked as if he owned the place. His hands were casually stuffed in his tracksuit pockets. A matching hoodie covered his head, casting his dark face into deeper shadow.

  “Hey, man!” Two kids skimmed past on their bikes. “You watch where you’s going.”

  They obviously hadn’t recognised him, and that was bad. He was annoyed; his reputation must be slipping. He was losing his touch, going soft. Cuba’s fault. He smiled. Cuba was a force for good, roaring into his life like a thunderbolt. She stood no nonsense — and Cuba Hassan wanted him out of the gang. She wanted him straight and clean, and she’d promised to help.

  He raised his eyes to a deck ten floors up on one of the blocks and spotted them: police. Like most of the youths around here, he had built-in radar where the police were concerned. He didn’t need this. He was keeping to the rules, and he didn’t want dragging down the nick. Within seconds he’d swerved and dodged into the community centre housed on the ground floor of the tower block he lived in.

  * * *

  “This is a waste of time,” Rocco said, rapping on the door again.

  “Lucky break though, Julian finding that receipt.”

  “That remains to be seen, Dodgy,” Rocco tempered. “I think we need to get moving. We need to find young Malcolm. We’ll achieve nothing hanging around here waiting to hassle his mother.”

  “It’d be her receipt though, she’ll be the one who buys the groceries. So how do you reckon the killer got hold of that particular carrier bag?”

  “Stole it, acquired it,” Rocco shrugged. “How many plastic bags do you see blowing in the streets around here? But a chat with Malcolm will help to clear this up.”

  Dodgy stuck his face to the letter box and shouted again. “There’s no one there, all doors leading off the hallway are closed and there’s a lot of post on the mat,” he said, finally standing up.

  “We’ve given it our best shot, maybe she’s gone away.” It was cold and way up here on the tenth floor the wind blew right through you. Rocco turned his collar up and shivered.

  “We could wait,” Dodgy suggested.

  Rocco shook his head — no way, not in this weather. The lad was green, they couldn’t afford the luxury of hanging around, but he’d learn. This was a big deal for the newbie. His first major case. He’d want to prove he could keep up — want to impress.

  But the truth of the matter was that Rocco wasn’t particularly concerned about missing Mrs Masheda. It was her son they needed to see. If anyone in this family was involved, then it would be Malcolm. He took out one of his cards from his overcoat pocket, scribbled a few words on the back, and pushed it through the letter box.

  Ten floors up and no working lift. How in the world did the tenants manage? He looked up at the further dozen or more floors above them. This place was hell, and not just because of the gangs.

  The sound of women arguing filled the air as they reached the ground floor, and both men looked around. The community centre was the venue for the Housing Action Group today, and the place was bouncing with activity. Anyone from the estate with a beef was sounding off about everything that was wrong with the place.

  Rocco looked in through the tinted window. The poor sods. This place; no chance of escape, and now a maniac on the loose. He couldn’t help wondering which one of those irate women had spawned the monster.

  “Make for the car.” He nodded to Dodgy as they strolled towards the Vauxhall.

  Rocco had spotted him. The young man they were after had darted under a table as he looked in. What did young Mr Masheda have to hide?

  Close to where his car was parked stood a clutter of tall rubbish bins. He pulled Dodgy in beside him and waited. Minutes later, Malcolm Masheda walked past, clutching a young woman’s hand.

  Despite any reservations Rocco had about Masheda he had to admit that they made a handsome couple. Both of them were tall and of West Indian descent.

  “A word, please, Malcolm.” Rocco flashed his warrant card. “Why are you trying to avoid us?”

  “I’m not!” The young man tucked his arm around the girl’s waist.

  “You spotted us and disappeared into the community centre, Mash. Why would you do that if you weren’t trying to avoid us?”

  “I went inside to get Cuba,” referring to the girl.

  “Yeah, he’s right,” she confirmed. “And he ain’t done nowt, so leave him be.”

  “Have you seen your friend Ice recently?” Dodgy broke in.

  “He’s not been around, he’s hiding, inne.” Mash and the girl laughed.

  “Why does he have to hide? What’s he done?”

  “He’s frightened, that’s what. He doesn’t want Kelly to find him and make him go back to her,” Cuba sneered. “They’ve got a kid and Ice ain’t interested, not in her and not in the kid.”

  “When exactly was the last time you saw him?”

  “Dunno — can’t remember.” Mash shrugged.

  “He was at that party a week ago. The one in Roxy’s flat,” Cuba confirmed.

  “Are you sure it was a week ago?”

  The girl nodded.

  “When were you last on the Circle Road, Mash — down on the common?”

  “Don’t go there, boss.” Mash shook his head.

  “You seem very sure.”

  The young man loosened his grip on Cuba for a moment, and lifted the right leg of his tracksuit bottoms.

  “I’s tagged,” he grimaced. “So I’s not allowed to go certain places and the common is one of them and I’s not allowed out before eight in the morning or after seven thirty at night.”

  “For how long?”

  “The last five weeks. You check, you’ll see I’m not lying.”

  Rocco had every intention of doing just that. If Masheda had nothing to do with this, then why the business with the receipt? Who wanted him stuck in their sights like this?

  “Not him, then?” Dodgy said when they were back in the car, heading towards the nick.

  “He has friends.” Rocco was grim. “That young woman for a start: Cuba Hassan. The two of them know everything that goes on back there.” He sighed. “But they won’t talk to us, not properly. But I think you’re right. Not him.” He shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know something useful, or hasn’t heard something on the street. They stick together like glue when it suits them.”

  * * *

  Calladine and Ruth went to Fieldfare House first, and knocked on Kelly Griggs’s front door.

  “She’s out!” a female voice hollered at them from the open door of the next flat. “Surprised she’s got the energy. That kid of hers screams most of the night. Stupid bitch should never have had him.”

  With that she went back inside and slammed the door shut.

  “Charming.” Ruth was peering through a small window beside the door. “If she’s not here then there’s not much we can do, I guess.”

  Calladine’s mobile sounded.

  “Looks like Rocco and Dodgy had no luck either. I’ll arrange for a uniformed officer to keep an eye open until someone shows up. We’d better see if Donna Edwards is home.” He shook his head wearily.

  He’d tell her that her son had met with an accident, and they were looking for him. But what was the betting they’d back soon enough to tell her he was dead?

  They took the stairs down. Kelly lived on the third floor, so it wasn’t too arduous. They walked across the large soulless square and into another block, where Donna lived. No lift
s yet again, and this time they had seven flights to climb. They had no luck there either. All three were out — or missing. He felt the familiar knot in his stomach.

  The two detectives walked back across the square to their parked car. A group of youths stood against the railings, staring, following their every step. The entire pack were clones of each other: hooded tops, expensive trainers, even down to the sullen expressions plastered across their young faces.

  “You know what this is, don’t you? It’s learn your lesson time from old man Fallon. You should speak to Central, see what he’s been up to. I’ll lay odds Ice was getting too big for his boots and Fallon took him down. You’ll see; whatever was going on will stop now. There won’t be any more trouble, not after this.”

  “It’s all too elaborate for Fallon.” Calladine shook his head.

  “Community centre,” Ruth noted, as they ran the gauntlet of cat-calls and abuse on the way back to their car. “Something on, by the sound of things.”

  “Housing Action, but it’s breaking up now.” And he made towards the doors.

  It was possible that he’d find one of the women in here. If not at the housing meeting, then perhaps making use of the other facilities the centre offered. There was a crèche, a café, even a food bank, and a large IT suite, which had rows of PCs, as well as superfast broadband. A couple of years back the centre had received a lottery grant and, against all the odds, had managed to hang on to the equipment that had been bought.

  The two detectives walked through the centre, finishing at the IT suite. There were a few teenagers playing games, a man looking through the job sites, and Malcolm Masheda and his girlfriend giggling over a computer in the far corner.

  “Afternoon, boss,” he greeted them in his deep voice. “I’m a popular guy today.” He grinned. “Had a couple of your mates over earlier. But I put them right. No worries, I’m job hunting, that’s what we’re doing, innit, girl?” He clutched Cuba somewhere around her hips. “Now I’s got a CV. Cuba’s been helping me.” He said this proudly, sending the document to the printer.