by Lisa Cutts
I stared at the windows. If I wasn’t very much mistaken, an unusual number of flies were indeed bashing about behind the panes of dirty glass.
Wingsy, having finished his call and got out of the car, followed my gaze.
‘Think we should knock, Nina.’ It wasn’t a question. He knew on instinct, as did I, that this was not looking good.
I went up to the front door, Wingsy just behind me. I banged a number of times on the door and the downstairs window. Wingsy did the same. Neither of us said a word. We had a good idea of what lay beyond the warped wooden front door of No. 17. Delia kept a safe distance on the pavement.
I looked through the letterbox. I could hear the faint buzz of flies, smell the unforgettable odour of a soulless shell. We each tried a house on either side but got no reply to our knocking there either. Resigned to what we were going to have to do, we telephoned DS Kim Cotton to tell her we planned to gain entry to the house.
We got ready to force the front door. We stood mentally preparing ourselves and squeezing our hands into white disposable rubber gloves. ‘I still have a key for the front door, if that’d help?’ said our helpful neighbour. ‘Don’t think they changed the locks.’
As she went back into her house opposite, Wingsy and I looked at each other. ‘It could just be his cat or something?’ he suggested. ‘Or a stray that wandered in. You’re not looking too convinced.’
‘Way I see it, mate, we’re gonna smell of dead body for some time. Last time I was in a situation like this was when I was in uniform. Had no qualms then about going home and burning all my clothes in the back garden. This suit is Next, you know?’ I tried to make light of the situation.
‘Yeah, but it’s not this year’s, though, is it?’ said Wingsy.
‘Piss off, you twat. I just – ’ I broke off as I saw Delia coming back across the street towards us. As she gave us the key, I explained that she should go back home and we’d be across to speak to her later. Really I was stalling. I had no intention of leaving my friend to go into the house by himself, but I knew how unpleasant the next few minutes were going to be.
Wingsy turned the key with one hand and pushed against the cracked and peeling door with the other. As his left hand let go of the key, he wasted no time in placing it firmly against his mouth. The buzzing got louder. Two hasty flies flew past Wingsy’s head.
‘Bloody hell, even the flies can’t wait to get out,’ I said in a second attempt to lighten the mood. Still didn’t work, of course. I followed Wingsy inside.
The hallway was dark. There was little natural light. The stairs were in front of us along the right-hand wall, one closed door to the left and one slightly ajar door at the back. The left-hand door was probably the lounge and the other the kitchen. For the second time that day, I heard myself shout, ‘Police. Anyone home?’
While I opened the door to my left on to an empty room, Wingsy made his way towards the back of the house. The room I was standing in did at least have some light from the window. The unappealing grey net curtains hung dismally, the wire they were suspended from having long since lost its tautness and let itself go. There was nothing else to look at except bare wooden boards, a single light bulb in the middle of the ceiling and surprisingly fresh-looking blue wallpaper. I went to check on Wingsy, trying out the light switch on my way. To my surprise a dim glow showed me the room’s full misery.
Wingsy was still in the kitchen, opening the back door. ‘I’ve looked in that built-in larder thing and the other built-in cupboards. Not down here, then.’ He slammed the wooden cupboard door shut. ‘Only one thing for it.’
I should go first this time, I thought as I headed for the staircase, before I changed my mind and let Wingsy be the gentleman I knew he was. I didn’t hurry, taking as many deep breaths of untainted air as I could. Thought about calling out ‘police’ again, but, if there had been anyone else alive on the top floor locked up with a corpse smelling this bad, the sight of me arriving was not going to do them any further harm.
Chapter 7
There really was no smell on earth quite like that of a decaying body. I moved along the landing towards the front bedroom, the boards creaking as I made my way towards the source of the stench and insects. I flicked on the light switch, illuminating the dingy area at the top of the stairs. Although there were three doors, my senses were making it quite clear which door separated us from a corpse. Bracing myself and making sure that my mouth was shut in case a startled bluebottle flew straight from the rotting flesh and on to my tongue, I turned the door handle. Wingsy said, ‘Want me to go first, sweetheart?’ I shook my head, mouth still shut, and pushed the door inwards.
The stench seemed to leap at me and attach itself to my nasal hairs. The air was thick with it; it had always reminded me of cheese past its best. My eyes, now accustomed to the dark, rested on a figure in the far left-hand corner. It was face-down, and from the size I guessed it used to be a man. Something seemed to be moving in the area that once was his right leg. Maggots crawled around the back of his thigh area. The man was naked, which was odd as there was nothing else in the room or, so far, anywhere else in the house.
I realised that I had been holding my breath. That now meant that I needed to take a lungful of rancid air.
The light came on overhead and Wingsy half shouted, ‘Fuck me!’
I was thinking something very similar myself. ‘Wingsy, do you think this bloke used to be white?’
‘And he’s stuck to the floor by the looks of it,’ came the reply.
Angry-sounding buzzing was coming from the window, where the flies were hitting the glass, impatient to make good their escape. I looked up at the window, tearing my eyes away from the man on the floor. I noticed that there was a pathetic grey net curtain similar to the one downstairs, but that this one was pulled back across its suspension wire. The wire was taut, unlike the one downstairs and therefore possibly new. Why would someone replace the wire and rehang such a sorry item?
The sound of Wingsy calling the office to update them interrupted my thoughts. I moved closer to the body to see if I could make out any obvious cause of death beneath the decomposition and the maggots. Nothing looked suspicious, other than the naked, dead man on the floor of an empty house. I was relieved at not having to touch him and disturb the evidence. Besides, no action I attempted was going to help him. Under the circumstances, with the right side of his face disappearing into the living room ceiling, it would have been too little, too late.
I listened to Wingsy give details of what we’d found, and only interrupted to add that the neighbour, Delia, would need a visit. We were likely to be busy with our own statements. Then I went to check the remaining two rooms. The other bedroom was empty, barring the statutory once-white netting, and the bathroom contained a bath, washbasin and toilet but nothing more.
Downstairs we waited for the on-call DI and a couple of uniform officers to arrive and carry out scene-preservation. I checked the time: it was later than I’d thought. I’d only have a couple of hours to get my paperwork in order before the briefing at six. Staying late afterwards and missing my time with Stan was not an option.
Chapter 8
By the time we got back to the nick, driving the whole way with the windows open to lessen the smell on our clothes and hair, we had managed to make several poor-taste jokes to cheer ourselves up. We went straight in to see Kim Cotton to update her on our lack of progress on Operation Guard as well as our latest discovery. We then took ourselves off to a quiet corner to complete our statements. Making our way past the never-ending stream of workmen, who were improving the appearance of the old building with a lick of paint and repairing the crumbling older parts, we found an office with a couple of free computers.
No sooner had we got settled than Alf, the caretaker, came in.
‘’Ello, you two. Hiding away from work again?’
‘You know me, Alf. Not one to meet a bit of graft head-on,’ I answered. ‘How’s things with you?’
‘What are you gonna do with yourself all day?’ asked Wingsy. ‘You’re such a young man.’ Alf was coming up to sixty-five but, in fairness, looked ten years younger. He was one of those people we all took for granted would always be around. The entire division knew Alf, and even those of us from other nicks were fond of him. He was always good for a brew in his poky little office at the rear of the station, where you could be certain no one of rank would ever venture. Nothing was too much trouble.
‘Dunno. Bit of telly, read a book, visit my son Adam in Spain. Him and a mate have got a bar out there. He’s doing very well for himself. Villa, that kind of thing.’ Alf walked over to the window, opening and shutting it, peering at the hinges. ‘Yeah,’ he said, pretty much to himself, ‘this is definitely broken. Get me tools. Later, you two.’
We had peace for all of about three minutes before Wingsy got a call from Simon Patterson, the detective inspector we’d seen at that morning’s briefing. I heard only one side of the call but got the gist. The body we had found at Preston Road had been identified. I looked over Wingsy’s shoulder as he wrote down, ‘Jason Holland, 23/03/78’. Wingsy nodded as I indicated that I would put that into the system to see what came up.
While he got more detailed information on the phone, I got the lowdown on the deceased. He was not a nice person.
The screen in front of me showed an image of a well-worn white male, a tattoo of a swallow on his neck. Holland had been of a generous build when the picture had been taken, only three months ago. If he had been dead for three or four weeks, it was unlikely that he’d have lost much weight in between.
As if he read my mind, Wingsy leant over my computer, arm barely touching mine, and said, ‘He’s a big old lump. Can’t see him being overpowered very easily.’
‘Just what I was thinking, mate,’ I said. ‘Next briefing’s when?’
‘In an hour. Loads to do before then.’
Now I had a decision to make. The briefing meant that I would be cutting it very fine to get to my old friend’s house by eight as I’d promised. But missing the briefing would not go down very well either. I would have to hope that it wouldn’t go on for too long. Whatever it was that Stan wanted to tell me was clearly something that would impact on both of our lives.
Chapter 9
Once again sixty or so officers, plain clothes and uniform, squeezed into the conference room. The air already smelt stale. All the chairs were taken, so again I made my way to the back. It looked like much the same crowd as that morning. It crossed my mind that there should be more people here, but it would have been difficult to get anyone else in the room. As if in answer, the projection screen came to life, showing another conference room at Force Headquarters where a similar packed room of investigators waited. The noise level of conversation increased. Queries on how colleagues had got on with their own pieces of the puzzle were raised in the rank and file while the bosses gathered their notes and took last-minute phone calls on mobiles already set to silent mode.
I felt a blast of fresh air and relished the idea of standing near the open window. I made my way over to it just as the meeting was opened. I stood with my back to the blinds swaying in the early evening breeze.
‘Welcome again, ladies and gents,’ said DCI Nottingham. He looked less red in the face than earlier, but just as tired. ‘You will be aware by now that there’s been a second body, found by Nina Foster and John Wing today at 17 Preston Road. He has been identified as Jason Holland, born 23rd March 1978. We know a bit about him. Previous convictions and arrests for theft, burglary, GBH, indecent assault and several warning signs for drugs and child protection. He was last seen four weeks ago on the 25th of August. Reported missing by his long-term partner, Annette Canning.
‘He was found naked and his clothing hasn’t been recovered. It’s early days yet to give you details about the cause of death but I can say that he suffered multiple stab wounds made by a similar weapon or implement to that used on Amanda Bell. We’re linking the two murders, and I’ll give you more details when I have them.’
He went on to describe Holland’s lifestyle and the lives of his close family and friends. None except his other half had seemed too bothered that he had gone missing. They had previously been spoken to and the right questions asked, but few seemed all that troubled by his disappearance. The point was made to the crowded rooms of officers that it didn’t seem as if there was a deliberate lack of co-operation, just that nobody seemed to care.
A noise in the office immediately behind the conference room caught my attention. Making an assumption that the window of the adjoining work space was also open, I craned my neck to try to peep into the next room. Bad timing. It was mine and Wingsy’s turn to take centre stage. As he was nearer the front of the room, he relayed what we had found.
‘Well, at least Nina was kind enough to stand by an open window. You stink to high heaven, John,’ said Simon Patterson, who was two seats away from Wingsy.
A laugh went round the room, followed by a bizarre, slightly later laugh from those in the room at Force Headquarters.
I interjected with one or two points that Wingsy missed but he summed it up concisely. Once we had finished, each member of the team, no matter what their part or rank, contributed what they could to the information being amassed around the murders of Amanda Bell and Jason Holland. I scribbled notes furiously. The room was filled with the scratching of cheap black pens on paper and hastily turned pages of notebooks.
I glanced up at the clock above the DCI’s head. 7.30pm.
Chapter 10
By the time the briefing had finished and I’d managed to call Stan it was after eight.
‘Stan, it’s me. Really, really sorry but I’ve been held up at work.’
‘Saw it on the news about that woman. What time do you think you’ll be here?’
I had never let Stan down before. I’d always turned up when I said I would, but he’d never asked me to come over, either. For the first time in over thirty years he was asking me for something, and he sounded desperate to see me. It made me feel uneasy. Well, to be honest, it made me feel grown-up. With being grown-up came responsibilities. I hesitated only for a second. ‘It may be a couple more hours. Will that be OK?’ I asked.
‘If you’re not finished by midnight, give me a call.’ It was Stan’s turn to hesitate. ‘Nin, I have worked on murders, you know. I’m well aware of the hours you put in.’
With the last two sentences, I detected some of the old, tough DCI McGuire. His voice had sounded tired up until that point. No, not tired – resigned.
One thing was clear, though: he wanted me at his house no matter what the time of night, and I was anxious to go. Only Stan could make me feel like that – usually I’d be glad of a bit of overtime, as I was always short of money. My salary wasn’t bad, but there never seemed to be enough once the essentials were paid for. And, of course, I ordered in my wine by the case. This was a costly outlay but cheaper in the long run and it meant I never ran out. I could do with a glass just about now.
Still standing with my phone in my hand, mulling over what was up with Stan, I saw Wingsy come towards me, with another man I’d seen at the briefing.
‘Nina, this is Pierre,’ said Wingsy.
Did we have an exchange programme running?
Pierre held out his hand and said in an accent similar to mine, ‘Hello, Nina. We get to work together tomorrow.’
I shook his hand and said, ‘Hello, Pierre. I thought that you were going to be F– ’
‘French – yes, I know. Get that all the time. Parents just had a sense of humour.’
I turned back to Wingsy. ‘Where are you tomorrow, pal?’
‘Crown Court. Last minute. But I may be back by lunch.’
Pierre was starting to walk away. ‘Nina,’ he said, ‘I’ve got your number. See you after the morning briefing and we�
�ll sort out a plan for the day.’ He waved over his shoulder as he disappeared into a crowd of lively detectives.
I focused my attention on Wingsy. ‘Why him?’
‘Single.’
‘Nice one.’ Pierre was a bit easy on the eye, I had to admit. Good-looking, and I had got close enough shaking his hand to notice that even twelve hours into a shift he still carried a trace of aftershave and not sweat.
‘Got a spare pen, Nina?’ Winsgy asked. ‘Wrote so much my pen ran out.’
I had a quick look in my handbag. ‘No. The only spare I’ve got is blue. There’s a stationery cupboard in the next office; we’ll get a couple from there.’ I hadn’t said anything to him about the noise I’d heard from the adjoining room but I wanted to have a look in case anyone was still working in there. It had slipped my mind up until now.
The typing room contained six desks, all with computers and empty chairs. The windows were closed but the one nearest to the conference room was only inches from the adjoining wall. This was a working nick; the building was never empty at any time of the day or night so the fact that someone might have been in the room was hardly unusual. I wondered if someone had been at the window, and could have been listening to the details of the briefing. But I was finding it difficult to comprehend why someone with access to a police station would want to listen at windows. Perhaps I was just tired and had my mind on other things. This was my seventh day on duty.
As Wingsy and I searched for pens in the typists’ store cupboard, I said, ‘Funny, you know, I thought I heard someone in here earlier during the briefing, Wingsy.’
‘Probably just late-turn patrols raiding the stationery cupboard,’ he said as he helped himself to three biros, a notepad and a box of paperclips.
I still wasn’t totally convinced, but my friend had put my mind at rest for the time being.