Jennifer recalled the look of disbelief on DI Allison’s face when she had first told him she had had a way of knowing things since she was a little child. But confiding in people was a bad idea and James had insisted she received treatment for her ‘mental illness’, which was followed by counselling when she disclosed that she was hearing voices. Stress can do funny things to you. There is medication that can help. Soon you will be back to your old self. Jennifer turned up the television and drowned out the whispers with several glasses of wine.
Shafts of morning light broke through the stained glass, casting her hall into a colourful glow of greens and reds. A cold breeze kissed her skin as she approached the kitchen. Jennifer pulled her dressing gown tightly together and checked the dial on the wall. Why is it so cold? She froze, adrenalin kicking in at the sight of her back door, which was wide open. Her breath fell shallow as she listened for sounds of an intruder. But all she could hear was the jingle of the milk cart whirring down the street outside. Her eyes scanned the room. Had she been burgled? Her iPhone lay on the counter, untouched. Her panic diluted in the absence of scuffmarks or forced entry. Had she really gone to bed and left the door open? The night before was a blur; she barely remembered taking herself up to bed. Slipping out the door, she padded to the shed at the bottom of her small garden. The soles of her woollen socks absorbed the dampness from the dewy blades of grass, and her eyes scanned the garden for signs of disturbance. The combination lock on the shed door was still in place. Frowning, she returned inside and hung her socks on the radiator to dry. ‘Better lay off the wine for a while,’ she mumbled, reaching for the mop bucket and bleach. It was time to clean the house before she got ready for work.
A small crowd littered the pavement outside the police station, smoking cigarettes and cracking jokes. Probationers. Jennifer could spot them a mile off. Their enthusiasm could only be matched by their optimism for what lay ahead. ‘Job pissed’, Will called them. Young people high on the excitement of becoming real life detectives, with no idea of what lay ahead.
DI James Allison was putting on his coat as she walked into the office. ‘You look smart. Can you spare time to attend a suspicious death with me?’
Jennifer patted the bun in her hair, held with a silver-edged black clasp. It matched her light grey suit perfectly, and she hoped the dark circles under her eyes did not betray the last few nights of unease. ‘Sure thing, boss. How come the duty inspector isn’t attending?’
‘He’s held up elsewhere. And besides, it’s one of yours – Johnny Mallet.’
Jennifer’s eyes widened. ‘Seriously? What’s happened?’
DI Allison looked at his watch. ‘Grab your coat, I’ll tell you on the way.’
Jennifer pulled her shoulder harness from the locked drawer, slapped a fresh battery into her radio, and attached herself to the incident with the control room. It was one of the things she loved about her job. She never knew where her day would take her.
Raindrops clacked against the roof of the unmarked Ford Focus as Jennifer turned the ignition. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Twenty-three Wilbur Way, it’s off the Barrington estate. There’s a unit on scene waiting for us. They don’t think it’s anything suspicious, but given it’s Johnny Mallet and the recent problems with Mike Stone, I thought we should attend.’
‘Of course,’ Jennifer said, her mind running back and forth, like the wipers fighting to keep up with the sudden downpour of rain. Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she chose to ignore it. Not because she was driving, but because it was the third silent call she had received that day.
DI Allison instructed Jennifer to follow a nearby sign. He gave her a cursory glance as she remembered to try to stay within the speed limit.
‘How are you today?’
‘I’m good, why do you ask?’
‘You look tired, that’s all. Everything alright?’
‘Fine and dandy,’ Jennifer said, trying to sound nonchalant. The last thing she wanted was to go over old ground. She was grateful to have woken with a clear mind and wanted to keep it that way. Keeping her eyes firmly on the road, she fixed her thoughts on the job ahead.
The Barrington estate was flanked by two blocks of flats on either side. Nicknamed ‘The Crack Estate,’ the appearance of police was something the residents did not welcome, but had long since resigned themselves to. DI Allison nodded to the young PC on duty as he opened the door to allow him inside. Jennifer began to feel very important as the PC stared with admiration, straightening his posture as the DI approached him for a quick briefing. ‘We had to force entry, gov, as the premises were secure. A wallet is on the table with money inside, and keys are in the back of the door, which was double bolted. There doesn’t appear to be a suicide note.’
‘There won’t be,’ Jennifer said. ‘He couldn’t read or write.’
The officer nodded and carried on. ‘A concern for welfare was called in by a Shelly Easton after he failed to turn up at her address. When there was no answer, she looked through the letterbox, and saw him swinging in the hall. Given the intelligence on the system, we left him in situ just in case anything cropped up. I can cut him down when you’ve looked him over.’
‘Good job PC—’
The young man glowed, ‘Clarke, sir.’
Jennifer frowned. ‘Why wasn’t he found by other residents?’
‘I’ve spoken to the landlord; the flats are undergoing redecoration before the next set of tenants move in. He let Johnny stay as he had nowhere else to go.’
It made sense. Shelly would not have wanted Johnny cramping her style.
‘OK PC Clarke. I’ll shout for you in a minute,’ the DI said, walking inside.
Jennifer followed him into the hall towards the limp body hanging from the banisters. A damp patch patterned the crotch of his jeans, and a dense, sour smell clawed at the back of her throat. She winced at the sight of numerous scratches dragged down his shirtless torso. Pulling on a pair of gloves from her back pocket, Jennifer handed an extra set to DI Allison. The mottled skin of Johnny’s stiff hands suggested he had been dead overnight at least. The dried blood under his long nails also suggested the scratches were self-inflicted. White foam edged the corner of his blue lips, which drooped to one side. Jennifer glanced at the rickety wooden chair, which lay on its side on the tiled floor.
‘His neck’s broken.’ DI Allison’s voice snapped Jennifer from her thoughts.
‘Do you think Mike Stone had anything to do with this?’ Jennifer said, wondering if there was anything she could have done to prevent Johnny’s premature death.
‘I know Stone of old. This isn’t his style. If he were going to do anything, he would have sent his cronies around to give him a pasting. Besides, Mallet wouldn’t have opened the door to anyone. Double check the rest of the flat, but I doubt very much anyone has gained entry.’ The DI called for PC Clarke to cut the body down. Jennifer prepared herself, knowing she would be elected to hold the dead weight as it was released to the floor.
A black van turned up outside with ‘private ambulance’ in white letters on the side. Neighbours gathered as two grim looking men in black suits wheeled a trolley towards the door, complete with a body bag. The short police community support officer that attended to assist was thrilled at having something more interesting to deal with than ticketing people for allowing their dogs to foul on the pavement.
‘Want to have one last look inside, Jennifer? We’re almost wrapped up here,’ DI Allison said, beckoning the PCSO.
Jennifer nodded, making her way through the open door of Johnny’s tiny bedsit. Like an itch she could not scratch, a distant nagging urged her to investigate the pitiful box space. She squeezed between the bed and kitchen unit on the other side, its sink belching plates caked in dried food. Walking past the wardrobe to the yellow-netted window, she sniffed the bottle of sour milk and empty cider cans littering its frame. The timber was crusted with emulsion paint and impossible to open. She glanced through the
window to the houses across the street. Front entry was too visible. Someone would have seen an intruder under the glare of the street lamps. They may not have been keen on speaking to police, but Johnny was well known by local residents and an anonymous call might have been made if anyone was seen trying to force entry. She checked the bed, picking up a discarded t-shirt and dropping it again as the smell of sweat assailed her nostrils. A rolled up duvet served as a pillow, and the green horsehair blanket made her feel itchy just looking at it. Jennifer had seen them before, being given out to the homeless by the Salvation Army.
She froze as the wardrobe behind her opened with a creak, revealing a single metal hanger. It’s just a breeze, she told herself, straining to check the top shelf. Nothing. You’ll get a better view if you stand on the bed. Jennifer considered the thought before standing on the spongy mattress. The bed frame wobbled as she stretched her fingers across the top of the wardrobe. It was clear apart from a piece of flattened board, which she grasped between finger and thumb. She ran her finger across the arc of letters and numbers in black ink. The words ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ flanked either side. ‘What’s he doing with this?’ Jennifer said to the empty room. The fact that Johnny was messing around with the occult did not come as much of a surprise, given his behaviour in the interview room. A cold breath whispered into her ear, sending goosebumps down her arms. ‘Yes.’
Jennifer jumped at the contact and spun around.
The DI leaned against the doorframe, smiling wanly. ‘You all right there?’
‘Oh yes, erm … did you just say something?’
’No, I was just about to tell you we’re ready to leave. What have you got?’
‘It’s a ouija board.’ Jennifer held out the board for inspection.
DI Allison raised his eyebrows. ‘Bit soon for a séance.’
Jennifer gave an uncomfortable laugh. ‘I haven’t checked the rest of the building yet.’
‘It’s been done. The meat wagon’s taken the body away. There’ll be an autopsy, but I don’t expect they’ll pick up anything unusual. We’re good to go.’
She sighed, relieved she had managed to avoid helping with the aftermath. She had enough dead body memories to last her a lifetime. Dropping the board on the bed, she followed the DI outside. The wind whipped errant strands of hair into her face and she pushed back the misgivings that were plaguing her mind.
DI Allison’s phone rang and he nodded for Jennifer to go ahead to the car. ‘Yes, that’s taken care of. We’re heading back now.’
Plucking off her gloves, Jennifer fished for the car keys in her bag. She needed to focus on her job and keep a clear head; she was a police detective, for God’s sake. She should fall back on her training for answers, not musings of ghosts and whispers. The truth would come out in the end, without the help of the supernatural.
8 Chapter Eight
Frank - 1978
The flag outside the Salvation Army danced in the icy wind. Tina was glad the edges were frayed and torn. She wanted to rip it off the flagpole and set it on fire. That would teach the do-gooders, approaching her with pity in their eyes then toddling off home to their tea and digestives. They hadn’t a clue what real life was all about. She jigged as she stood on the pavement, elbows clamped to her side as she dragged on her cigarette.
Frank looked her up and down as he approached. Her legs, bare and mottled, were a pathetic sight. Questions ran through his mind, the same ones he had asked five years ago when he was thirteen years old, watching Tina from the refuge of the shadows. Why did Gloria have to die? Why couldn’t it have been Tina? The monsters inside him scurried like unwanted rats, gnawing at his insides, demanding attention. They had grown. They were fat and greedy and wanted to be fed. He pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind. Impulse had no place here. He could not afford to mess this up.
‘Hello my dear, fancy a good time?’ Tina’s voice was slick as she walked towards him, jutting her denim-skirted hips, the same as before.
Frank realised he was clenching his fists, and relaxed his face into an alluring smile. ‘Tina. You don’t recognise me.’
Tina’s eyes narrowed and she looked around her swiftly. ‘Are you a cop?’
‘No. I’m Frank. Viv’s boy.’
Tina frowned in puzzlement as she tried to recall the name.
‘A friend of Glo’s.’
Her eyes widened, and she stubbed out her cigarette with the heel of her boot. ‘Glo’s dead.’
‘I know. How much?’
‘How much for what?’
‘A tour of the city – what do you think?’
Tina smirked. ‘Bit of a comedian aren’t you? What’cha got?’
Frank waved a couple of notes before her.
‘This is all I’ve got. Have you got somewhere we can go?’ Frank said.
Tina glanced at the notes and smiled. ‘Well, if the alley ain’t good enough, my mate lets me use his flat.’
‘I know somewhere quieter,’ Frank said.
Tina cocked her head to one side. ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure if I trust you.’
Frank’s nails bit into the palms of his hands and his voice deepened into an impatient growl. ‘Do you want the money or not?’
Tina swore as she tottered through the wet leaves, bowing to avoid the low branches on the narrow path.
‘Where are you bringing me? We’ve been walking for ages.’ The bones in her fingers dug into Frank’s forearm, and he resisted the urge to push her into the briars.
‘Quit your moaning, we’re here.’ The beam of his torch lit a derelict house. The torch was for Tina’s benefit. His eyes had long since adjusted to the night, and he knew these paths well.
‘Stinks a bit.’ Tina wrinkled her nose as Frank pushed open the back door. The scent of soot still hung in the air, remnants from a partial house fire. The original occupants of the house had long since fled.
‘Sorry, I forgot you’re used to the Ritz,’ he said, lighting a fat roman candle and carrying it through to the sparsely furnished room. A porcelain doll lay on the thinly carpeted floor, its arm outstretched, searching for the owner that abandoned it. Tina removed her high-heeled boots and tiptoed over to the burgundy sofa in the corner. She made an effort to drape herself seductively on the damp material. ‘Well, come on then. Let’s see your money so we can get started.’
Frank hesitated, somewhat tempted as she began to undo her blouse and hitch up her skirt. He waved the cash and left it on the table.
‘C’mon my lad, let the dog see the bone,’ she said, hitching her knickers to one side.
Christ, what was he thinking? Yet there it was, laid out on a plate in front of him. He had only intended on getting her alone to question her, but it was too good an opportunity to miss.
The candlelight flickered against her bare breasts as she pressed them together in an effort to hurry him up. Frank moved towards her, his plans changing by the second. He undid the buckle of his belt, his heart beating hard in his chest. ‘Turn around,’ Frank said, enjoying the feeling of empowerment. Grabbing a fistful of Tina’s hair, he satisfied himself until his plans were temporarily forgotten.
‘You got a fag?’ Tina said, appearing indifferent to it all.
‘I don’t smoke.’
Tina shrugged and took a pack out of her bag. ‘Maybe now you’ve popped your cherry you can start. It’s good after sex. You should try it.’
Frank stared at Tina as the circular orange glow of her cigarette punctuated the darkness. He imagined stubbing it out on her face. How dare the dirty slut talk down to him? He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, a small trickle of blood leaking a copper taste into his mouth.
‘Aw c’mon, what are you looking so mad about? You got what you wanted. Now show me the way back. It’s fucking freezing in here.’
‘Sit down,’ Frank said, his voice deep and low.
Tina sniffed. ‘Look, I don’t know what’s going on here but I don’t have time for it. Are you going to show me the
way back or do I have to find it myself?’
Frank took two strides towards her, and placing both hands on her shoulders, pushed her back against the sofa. Tina yelped as her head hit the corner of the tattered armrest. Frank leaned over her and pressed his finger to her mouth. Fingering the knife in his jacket pocket, his words came slow and deliberate.
‘You want to get out of here in one piece, you listen to me.’
Tina’s eyes widened as a panicked look flashed across her face. Her eyes darted towards the door and back at Frank. She nodded, edging herself backwards.
‘Where’s Osborne?’
‘Who wants to know?’ Tina’s chest heaved up and down like a frightened bird.
‘I would have thought that’s pretty obvious,’ he said, relishing the power he held over his frightened captive.
‘He’s not on the scene anymore. Now let me go or I’ll scream.’ She straightened herself up defiantly, but her large frightened eyes betrayed her.
’You make one move and I’ll slice you from ear to ear.’ Frank drew the hunting knife from his pocket and admired the glint of candlelight on the blade.
Tina sank back into the chair. ‘Look, I don’t give a shit about Osborne, but if it gets out I’m a grass, I’m finished around here.’
The serrated edge of the knife left an imprint on Tina’s face as he pressed the cold blade against her cheekbone.
She flinched, recoiling from the blade. ‘OK, don’t hurt me, I’ll tell you. He’s squatting somewhere in the old Barnes estate. He meets his dealer every Thursday night and goes back there to score.’
‘You better be telling the truth … because if you’re not …’
‘I am, I swear!’
Frank stroked her face with the knife. ‘What happened to Gloria?”
Don't Turn Around: A dark, thrilling, page-turner of a crime novel (Detective Jennifer Knight Crime Thriller Series Book 1) Page 6