‘Why do I think I’ve just walked into a big trap?’ Ed said.
‘And there’s an 18-year-old who could do with your help right now. Nobody has a clue where she is.’
Ed shook his head. ‘Unless she’s got clean away, and I hope she has, she’s dead’
‘God I hope not. Look, I’ll give you Bev Summers and Paul Adams. That should be enough to be going on with. We can look at staffing once we know where we are splodging. Just get a feel for what’s been done up to now.’
‘Honour crimes are a nightmare to investigate,’ Ed said. ‘Everybody’ll just clam up. And if she’s dead, here or in India…’
His words hung in the air, that time-standing-still moment between pulling the ripcord and the chute unfurling.
Sam rubbed her face and stood up.
‘As JFK once said, we don’t do these things because they’re easy, and let’s be right, if the job was easy, we wouldn’t be getting it.’
‘True enough,” Ed nodded.
The meeting of the Mortimers was under way in the Jolly Roger. Steve Donnelly, the licensee, watched the group of five in matching blue T-shirts with their pathetic logos, sink another round of shots. Did this lot ever do any studying? Did they ever make it to a lecture? Forty grand’s worth of debt just to learn how to be a piss-head. Christ, he had regulars who been on the dole for years who were piss-heads, but they’d never felt the need to undertake a three-year degree course to learn how to do it.
Mortimers might be good for trade, but shots at 2pm, the Newcastle game televised at 3pm thanks to some foreign channel and young girls piling in later was a Molotov cocktail on a smoking fuse; more Bloody Brawl than Bloody Mary. At least he’d had the foresight to put a couple of bouncers on. Pay weekend and ‘The Toon’ playing away guaranteed a till drawer like Tigger on crack cocaine.
This lot of juveniles would keep themselves in order while the match was on – too many hard lads who would sort them out if they stepped out of line – but later, once the football lot had gone, and the night crowd came out, it would be different. These gobshites had no manners around young women. If they spoke to his daughter like they spoke to some of the girls in here, he would happily lose his licence and his liberty.
The final whistle and the football crowd shuffled out, shoulders slouched in resignation at another away defeat.
The pub moved to the transitional stage between daytime and evening drinkers. Except for the group of five Mortimers in the corner. Their table was littered with pint glasses, shot glasses, empty crisp and salted nut packets, and they were getting louder. Steve Donnelly considered refusing to sell them any more drink, but they were filling his till with their student loans. Besides, when did the police ever do licensing checks these days? Not since the old days.
He remembered the dedicated police-licensing department checking up all the time in the 1980s. When that department closed down, a uniform Sergeant and the local PC carried out spot checks. Now? Nothing. Financial cuts. Government austerity. Whatever the cause, there were no visits these days. So he just kept taking their money and would sort any drink-fuelled trouble later.
The first group of girls came in about 7pm, five students dressed for a Saturday night out in their short shirts, skimpy tops and high heels, young girls out with their friends and not bothering anyone.
He watched three of the Mortimers swagger unsteadily over to the group. The lads said something. He couldn’t hear what. The DJ was into his third track of the night, Pharrell Williams belting out Happy. He watched the tall redhead mouth ‘Fuck Off’.
The boys walked away, exchanging the usual juvenile comments he’d heard all his life... ‘dirty lesbos’, ‘dog rough anyway'. Fashions might change but whether it was the platforms and flares of the 70s or the jeans and T-shirts of today, the abuse was the same.
By 9pm the pub was bouncing, bass booming and bodies bumping. Strobe lighting completed the transformation, the pub morphing into a nightclub. The Mortimers had left their seats and were now staggering around, incoherently speaking to girls who weren’t interested in listening. When a couple of the group, mouths open, tongues out, tried to pull two young women towards them, Steve decided enough was enough. He signalled to the doormen.
The bouncers approached and asked them to leave. One of the group, the biggest who obviously fancied himself with the ladies and in a fight, held his ground.
‘Fucking make us.’
The odds were not good for the student. Billy, in his 50s with a black leather jacket, broad shoulders and huge arms, had worked the doors in most of the rough establishments in town. He remembered the old days before the advent of the Door Supervisors course and the three-year licence. He would have loved to smack the arrogant little prick on the spot. But there were too many cameras and the risk to his badge, and his employment, was too great.
‘Come on then. Fucking make us,’ the student repeated, his forearms flexing, fists clenching.
Customers moved away, an unspoken no-go circle of space between punters and antagonists appearing.
Donnelly shouted ‘reinforcements on their way’ as he put down the phone.
The younger bouncer moved in... 6ft 8in, slim, and 19 years old. He leaned in towards the group’s apparent leader.
‘We don’t want to make you, we’ve asked you nicely. One way or the other you are leaving, whether that’s you walking out, us throwing you out, or somebody bringing a stretcher to carry you out. I don’t care. But you’re leaving. I haven’t had a drink, you have. I’ve had a good Thai kick-boxing sparring session this afternoon. Warmed me up nicely.’
‘Just leave it Jack,’ one of the others in the group said.
‘Yeah, let’s just go,’ another added.
‘Listen to your mates,’ the tall, young bouncer said.
‘Fuck them.’
Three started to walk away; one remained with the aggressor in a show of solidarity.
Again the tall bouncer spoke.
‘Just us now. Your mates are heading out.’
The aggressor turned away, picked up a half-drunk pint from one of the empty tables and threw the beer over the young bouncer.
Billy stepped in.
‘You pompous little shit. You’ll pay for that.’
He grabbed the beer thrower’s arm.
‘You’ll not pay now. Too many cameras, arsehole, unless you swing for me, then the cameras will show self-defence. But you will pay.’
The young bouncer flicked beer from his face and smiled.
The last two blue shirts with the daft logos were escorted off the premises.
Outside as the group staggered away, the aggressor had to have the last word. ‘I’ll get you two later.’
Billy nodded and stretched his arms in a come-on-then stance.
‘Yeah right, little boy. I’m bricking it.’
The young doorman just kept smiling.
Chapter Three
‘There’s no money for overtime, you know that,’ Sam told him, walking to her car.
‘Yeah I know, but we may as well make a start tomorrow,’ Ed said. ‘I’ve had a word with Paul and Bev. We’ll just take another day off later.’
‘How many lieu days have you got now?’ Sam asked.
‘Forty-odd, just like everybody else. What do you do? Just because there’s no money doesn’t mean the job stops. We’ve got an 18-year-old missing here. I’ll feel better myself knowing I tried. I just wish they’d involved us earlier… It’ll only take a couple of hours tomorrow, then we’ll hit the ground running on Monday.’
‘Okay then,’ Sam said, opening the door of her Audi. ‘Anything you need, give me a shout. I’ll look forward to a briefing on Monday.’
‘Much planned for tomorrow?’
Sam shrugged. ‘Nothing. Lazy day. Can’t even go out for lunch with Bev now that you’ve talked her into coming in.’
‘Sorry about that,’ Ed said.
‘Don’t worry. Give me a day to catch up. I’m doing a sh
ort literature course at the uni. Discovering some of the literary greats... Hemingway, Dickens, George Orwell and... ’
‘All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others,’ Ed quoted Orwell with a grin.
‘You never cease to amaze me,’ Sam said, closing the car door.
All animals are equal, Ed thought as he watched her drive out of the HQ car park, unless you happened to be a young girl growing up in a traditional Sikh family. Then you weren’t equal. Then you were a second-class citizen.
He drove home, considering what indicators he would look out for tomorrow with regards to the missing girl. He’d sit down with Sue tonight, explain what was happening, perhaps get her input. Ellen was away for the weekend.
He had tried to spend more time with his wife, but whatever he did would never be enough. Truth of the matter, she had never wanted him to rejoin the police. If she’d had her way, he would still be in her family’s business, and while they were financially comfortable, had he stuck with the firm, as she kept reminding him, they’d be millionaires.
Convincing Sue money wasn’t everything, that sanity was more important, was an ongoing battle.
Sunday 13th April 2014
Ed was drinking tea and unwrapping a two-fingered Kit-Kat when the office phone rang. He was reading the Missing From Home file while he waited for Paul and Bev.
‘Anything interesting overnight?’ Sam’s voice came down the line.
‘Thought you were having a lazy day.’
‘I always ring control room when I’m off just to see what’s happening. Easier than trying to catch up when I come back in, and it gives me an early heads up if there’s a potential job for us. I knew you were in, so I thought I’d ring you. I’m wandering around the garden centre at the minute.’
Ed swallowed a piece of biscuit.
‘Never had you down as a Charlie Dimmock.’
He scrolled through last night’s incidents.
‘Quiet night by all accounts, certainly on the crime front. There was a fatal. Traffic dealing. Uniform in Seaton St George had a bit of a job. Student fell into the river. Pissed by all accounts.’
‘Another one?’ Sam said. ‘How many’s that? Five in six months? Will they ever learn?’
‘Hey, it’s always somebody else’s fault,’ Ed said. ‘Council’s for not building railings, pubs for doing 2-for-1 drinks, ours for not having foot patrols along the riverbank and cops in boats. Everybody’s fault except the students for throwing more down their neck than they can handle.’
‘Male or female?’
‘Male. Not formally identified yet, well not according to the Control Room Incident Log. Has a driving licence in the name of Jack Goddard, student card in same name, University Seaton St. George.’
‘Who’s dealing?’
‘The bold Inspector Wright.’
‘Why need Britain tremble?’
‘As much as I’d like to talk about Inspector Never, I’ve got to go, Bev and Paul have just walked in.’
Bev Summers and Paul Adams were both well-respected members of the Murder Investigation Team. Paul was a relatively new addition, a young ambitious officer. Bev joined the job at 18 in 1991 and wore her wrinkles with pride.
All three of them were casually dressed in jeans and shirt.
‘I’ve got the Misper file,’ Ed said. ‘I suggest we get to know what’s in that and go from there. Sam wants a full briefing in the morning. You both know my views. They haven’t changed since she went missing. I’ve always had a bad feeling about this… so get the kettle on and let’s make a start.’
‘What we looking for?’ Paul said.
‘I’m interested in the family,’ Ed told him. ‘What are the dynamics? And I want to get the sequence of events clear in my mind. From there we can look at an investigative plan.’
The three of them were standing by the window, kettle on the windowsill, desks and computer terminals filling the long HOLMES room.
‘See Newcastle managed to keep it down to one,’ Bev said, like Ed, a life-long supporter.
‘You know,’ Ed said, ‘Where are we now? 2014. Twelve years ago I was watching them in the Champions League. I went to Barcelona, Milan... ’
Bev interrupted: ‘You’ll never see a Mackem in Milan.’
Ed smiled. ‘Dead right. The nearest Sunderland ever get to Europe is Southampton away but that’s the same for us these days. Beaten at Stoke. To think Bobby Robson got sacked for finishing just outside the top four.’
‘Did you say you wanted another tea?’ Paul asked, living proof not all North East men were football fanatics.
‘Please.’
The door burst open.
‘Tea on?’ Sam Parker marched into the room.
‘I thought you were having a lazy day?’ Ed said.
‘No plants took my fancy and I finished my Hemingway book last night, so I’m on track with my course work. Thought I may as well come in. You said it’ll take a couple of hours, so here I am. Save you having to brief me in the morning. No sugar for me, thanks Paul.’
Paul nodded.
‘Which Hemingway?’ Ed asked.
‘What? Oh. ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’.’
‘You can’t beat a bit of Spanish Civil War,’ Ed said.
‘Maybe I should take you along to my course, what with your knowledge of Orwell and Hemingway.’
‘Don’t you think I spend enough time with you here without spending more when I’m off?’
They both laughed.
Tea drunk, last night’s TV discussed, the four of them sat around Sam Parker’s desk.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘What have we got, Ed?’
‘Aisha Bhandal. 18 years. Goes to college Friday 13th December 2013. Leaves college at 2.30pm... ‘
‘Anyone superstitious?’ Sam said.
All three shook their heads.
‘Normally gets home at 5.30... '
‘Sorry Ed.’ Another interruption from Sam. ‘As a matter of interest, do Sikh’s celebrate Christmas?’
‘Over here they do,’ Ed said. ‘They’re not Muslims. Different religion all together. But, and this is the big but, don’t go thinking it’s just Muslims who have the culture of arranged, and as a consequence of that, forced marriages. It’s not.’
Ed picked up his mug.
Sam looked at Bev and Paul.
‘Do you both understand the difference between an arranged marriage and a forced marriage?’
‘Think so,’ Bev said. ‘One’s with consent, one’s not.’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ Ed said, ‘in its most simplistic terms. In the main it’s girls, although about 15% of reported cases are male.’
‘Really?’ Paul took a pen from his pocket.
Ed nodded. Most people coming at the issue for the first time never thought about it happening to men.
‘Really,’ Ed said. ‘Think of homosexuals for starters. Homosexuality is frowned upon. That could be a trigger for a forced marriage, but there are others.’
Sam pulled her chair closer to the desk.
‘You said in its most simplistic terms?’
Ed nodded. ‘Bev’s right, but the girl who agrees, who consents just to keep the family happy or consents through overt or covert pressure, is that arranged or forced?’
‘Fair point,’ Sam said.
‘I’ve read Davinder’s statement, the dad,’ Ed said. ‘He describes a happy family. Aisha goes to college on that Friday morning and is not seen again. The college confirm she was there that day and left after lessons finished. Like I said, 2.30pm.’
‘Any comments on the family in the file?’ asked Sam.
‘Not really,’ Ed told her. ‘They haven’t asked the right questions to be fair. A PC has asked about honour, but in a bull-in-a-china-shop way. That’s what the family latched on to in the press conference.’
Ed paused. ‘Look I’ll formulate some questions. The father is saying they embrace the British way of life, but there a
re ways we can test that because I don’t believe him.’
‘Okay. Anything else?’ asked Sam.
‘Yes. Aisha’s captured on CCTV walking around the shopping centre. That footage was used in our TV appeals but it doesn’t sit right with me.’
‘Why?’ Sam asked.
‘I’m not sure. I’m wondering if her parents knew she finished early. Her friends from college say she was a nice girl, but never met them outside college. Is that Aisha’s doing or her parents? I fancy the latter.’
‘Who was the guy she was last seen with?’ Sam asked.
‘In the shopping centre? Believed to be Sukhvinder Sahota. He’s not been seen since that day either.’
‘Has he been reported missing?’ Bev piped up.
Ed shook his head.
‘He’s a student too. No next of kin on his student file. He owns a Fiesta though, so we’ve flagged that up on the PNC.’
The Police National Computer would allow every force to know Eastern were interested in the car.
‘So, is she last seen in the shopping centre?’ Bev said.
‘Yes. We don’t know where she goes from there. The cameras outside the centre are pretty sporadic.’
‘Have they all been checked though?’ Sam demanded.
Ed’s eyes were moving about like a spectator at a tennis match.
‘Apparently.’
‘There’s the first line of enquiry,’ Sam said. ‘I want all the CCTV doing again.’
Paul grimaced. Someone was going to get that shit job, and around this table, as the youngest in service, he was odds-on favourite.
‘Okay,’ Ed said. ‘One of her friends at college, Bethany…’ Ed flicked through the few statements attached to the file. ‘Bethany Stevens. She says Aisha had mentioned a marriage, and how she was worried about going to India, but of course the family denied that.’
‘Let’s revisit Bethany,’ Sam said, ‘and at some point, Ed, you and I are going to introduce ourselves to Mr and Mrs Bhandal.’
‘If the answer does lie within the family, there are a couple of potential triggers here,’ Ed said.
Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set Page 33