Brass in Pocket
Page 32
‘We’ll have the floater cracked in no time.’
I glanced at Boyd, who was draping his jacket over the back of a chair and he nodded confirmation. Hobbs narrowed his eyes and I knew he didn’t believe me, but there was nothing he could do. I could see his mind working, cursing himself for having passed up a murder investigation for a rape that was going nowhere. It would be back to burglaries and thefts for him next week. But he was thinking of every angle to get the case reassigned. I’d seen the look before and decided that I had to talk to the Superintendent. Hobbs adjusted his tie, moving it back and forth before returning it to its original position and then he pushed out his chin.
‘Going to the game, Dave?’ I said.
‘Reports to write,’ he said, lifting his feet off the desk before standing up and turning on his heels.
I walked into my room and sat down on the chair. I could hear the activity from the takeaway restaurants, that were preparing for another day, drifting up from across the street. I glanced at my watch and realised I had to get moving with the search of Michal’s bed-sit. But first I had to see Superintendent Cornock.
It was a short walk through the corridors to his office and once I’d knocked I heard a muffled shout. Cornock was leaning over a tank of goldfish when I entered, not the sort you buy in a bag at a funfair but large multi-coloured ones that looked well fed.
Spencer Cornock had a short back-and-sides in the old-fashioned style, his shirt was white and the tie a solid-blue. In fact his shirt was always white, he always wore a dark-blue suit and it was difficult to tell whether it was the same one each day.
‘Good morning, John.’
‘Morning, sir.’
‘Fish are very soothing you know.’
I nodded.
‘That’s why they have them in doctors’ waiting rooms.’
He obviously went to a different surgery from the one I used. All I could bring to mind was a waiting room with stacks of out-of-date magazines, the sound of babies crying and the coughs and splutters from chronically sick people. Cornock lived in Cyncoed, where houses were detached and trees lined the roads, where the doctors had more time for their patients, and presumably their waiting rooms had tanks with fish, probably tropical.
‘I took a call this morning about a body in the Taff. Down by the Millennium Stadium.’
Cornock stepped back towards his desk and sat down before giving me a quizzical look. ‘I thought you were off duty.’
‘Dave Hobbs was the duty DI but he didn’t want to take the call. He went to Grangetown for a domestic.’
He pinched his lips and his eyebrows almost met above the top of his nose. I continued, rather pleased with the reaction. ‘I’ve done the post mortem and collected the exhibits. And we’ve interviewed the next of kin, well sort of.’
‘Sort of?’
‘The dead man’s boyfriend. He was really cut up.’
‘Can he do the identification?’
‘He should do. But there was a Polish identity card on the body.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The realities of modern Europe, John. Keep me informed.’
I got up to leave and as I did so I told him about Frankie Prince.
He gave me a wintry gaze. ‘Be careful, John.’
I mumbled a reply as I left Cornock, who picked up an expensive-looking pen and peered down at the mass of paperwork on his desk. It was the best I could have achieved in the circumstances, as procedure made it clear that once a senior officer had been allocated to a case, it wasn’t normally reassigned. I smiled, considering what Cornock might make of Hobbs turning down a murder investigation in favour of a domestic.
Passing an open window, I saw rain-threatening clouds drifting over the sky and hoped that any showers would keep away until after the game. Boyd was fiddling with a set of car keys in his hand when I walked up to his desk.
He looked bored. ‘Ready, boss?’
We collected Kamil on the way to the car park and after Boyd unlocked the unmarked police car we climbed in. Kamil looked relieved to be leaving the station. We threaded our way through the city centre towards Newport Road and then took a right towards Splott. Kamil sat in the back, dead quiet.
Along the streets delivery vans were disgorging boxes of clothes and trinkets for the pound shops. Children on small bikes toured the pavements surrounding the terraced houses. I knew that most of the Eastern Europeans in Cardiff had found their way to the cheap bed-sits owned by landlords who crammed two into a bedroom.
After twenty minutes Boyd pulled over and parked.
‘Is this the place?’ I turned to Kamil who was leaning forward.
‘Yes.’
I held the palm of my hand towards him. ‘Let’s have the key then.’
He put two Yale latchkeys into my hand.
‘The one with green tape is for front door,’ he said.
I pushed a small rusty gate to one side and, choosing the green key, opened the front door. Two old bicycles were propped up against the bottom of the staircase: the air smelt stale and vinegary.
‘What’s that stench?’ Boyd asked, wafting a hand in front of his face.
‘Red cabbage and sausage,’ Kamil said. ‘Polish food.’
The smell lingered and my mouth took on a strange, salty sensation.
‘Where’s Michal’s room?’ I said.
Kamil pointed upstairs. ‘Second floor.’
A threadbare carpet covered the stairs and the handrail rattled against the spindles.
‘It’s through here,’ Kamil said, as we reached the second floor.
A plastic number seven hung at an angle in the middle of the door. I fumbled for the other key.
I took two steps into the room, Kamil immediately behind me. Covering the bed were the contents of several flimsy wooden drawers, which had been thrown in a pile by the window. At the far end of the room the doors of the makeshift kitchen units hung limply from their carcasses, bottles and sprays spewing out over the floor.
When Kamil saw the destruction he put his hand to his mouth and said something in Polish – it sounded hard; I didn’t need a translation to understand what he meant. Boyd pushed his way past Kamil and let out a low whistle.
‘Better call the CSIs,’ I said to Boyd.
Kamil walked around the bed, piled high with ripped clothes and the remains of cushions and pillows.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ I told him as he leant down and fingered a piece of clothing. He looked me in the eye and straightened up. ‘This is a crime scene,’ I said, raising my voice.
Boyd stepped back into the room. ‘On their way, boss.’
I walked over to the wardrobe, a decrepit wooden one, good enough only for firewood, and pulled open the doors. Some old T-shirts were draped on hangers, all cut to shreds.
Kamil bent down and picked up a box, of a fancy purple-speckled colour. He fiddled with the green ribbon tied in a bow on the lid. It looked like a container for carrying expensive Belgian chocolates.
I looked over at him and said, ‘I thought I told you …’
He held it tightly in the palm of his hand and tugged at the ribbon. It fell away; he lifted the cover.
And then he screamed.
The box shook in his hand as he gulped for air. I stepped over the discarded piles of clothes and took the box from his hand. I looked down and for the second time that day I saw a dismembered tongue
Stephen Puleston
Inspector Marco Thrillers
The first Inspector Marco novel a detective based in Cardiff, is available - please click on the link below to my website. –
http://www.stephenpuleston.co.uk/inspector-marco/speechless/
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