by Rob Ashman
24
Kray pulled half a bottle of wine from the door of the fridge and emptied the whole lot into a fishbowl of a glass. She shuffled into the lounge and collapsed on the sofa. The clock on the mantelpiece told her it was one-forty-five in the morning.
She glugged at the wine like a runner drinks water. It felt good. It washed away the taste of death that had lodged itself at the back of her throat.
She had arrived at Franklin’s house to be met by a wall of uniformed officers, all of them busying themselves securing the crime scene and holding back the prying eyes of nosey neighbours. Franklin’s boss, a man by the name of Gerald Hopwood, was sat half-in and half-out of a squad car. His arse was in the car, but his body was bent forward at the waist, trying not to vomit onto his shoes for the third time that evening. Now, every time he wretched, nothing came out.
Kray had questioned him and found that he had been expecting Franklin to email him an article that she had written in time for it to go to print. She had failed to meet the deadline, so Hopwood had called both her mobile and house phone but had got no response. He was furious. He had made it clear how important it was to hit the publishing window, and she’d missed it.
Having called until his fingers hurt, he had jumped into his car and drove to her house with the intention of giving her a royal bollocking. The house lights were on, and her car was parked in the drive, but she had failed to answer the door. He opened her letter box to shout for her to let him in. It was then that he saw her naked body hanging upside down at the bottom of the stairs. Her translucent face stared back at him through ruptured eyes with a gingham tea towel rammed into her mouth. That was his first vomit of the evening.
Kray chugged back more wine and stared into the middle distance, feeling like she’d been run over by a bus. To top it all, in the middle of checking out the body, Quade had called demanding to know why the press statement was not on her desk or waiting in her inbox. Kray responded with a ‘I’m busy right now ma’am,’ and hung up. She ignored the next three calls.
Kray had called Quade back at one-thirty am and woke her up. Quade stopped dead in her tracks when she heard what she had to say.
Kray brought the conversation to a close by saying, ‘So, you might want to re-think what that press release is going to say, ma’am.’ Kray took the silence at the other end of the line as tacit agreement. Her last action of the day was to make a call to the mortuary, and she was done.
Kray slurped the last of the wine and curled up on the sofa, dragging a blanket over her. Within minutes, she was sound asleep.
The radio alarm went off upstairs announcing the six am news. Kray stretched her arms and legs and rolled off the sofa. She padded into the kitchen, flicked on the kettle and headed for the shower. It was going to be a long day.
The traffic was light on her drive into work, and she was drawing down her second cigarette of the morning, sitting in the smoking shelter outside the station when Brownlow appeared.
‘You found a connection, then?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Colin, we did, but more importantly we found Chapman’s body.’ Kray flicked the cigarette butt in his direction. It bounced off the ground and landed on his shoe.
‘Look, Roz, I was angry and frustrated yesterday, I didn’t mean–’
‘Save it for the briefing, Colin, then you can explain to everyone why you found fuck all. Oh, and I’ve invited Quade. Should be fun.’
Brownlow looked like he’d shit his pants.
Upstairs, officers had started to congregate for the seven-thirty prayers. They took their seats holding coffees and notepads. This was high profile stuff and no one wanted to be late.
Kray joined them with a ‘Good morning everyone,’ and was pleasantly surprised with the positive reaction. Then, she realised ACC Quade had walked in behind her.
‘Morning,’ Quade said, waddling to the front of the room. Kray stood next to her.
‘Morning, ma’am.’
‘Roz. You okay this morning?’
‘Didn’t get much sleep last night, but other than that, yeah, I’m okay.’
‘This is big.’
‘Yes, ma’am, all the more reason to get it right.’
‘DCI Jackson always gave the killer a nickname. Have you thought of one for this case?’
‘No, ma’am, I haven’t. With all due respect, I think it’s the role of the gutter press to put labels onto vicious killers. It’s our role to catch them. Just a thought.’
‘Yes, you’re right, of course.’ Quade dropped the topic.
Brownlow sloped in and took a seat at the back of the room. Quade clocked him.
‘I think we have a full house, so let’s make a start,’ Kray called out. ‘Colin, if you could kick us off.’
Oops, there he goes again, shitting his pants.
Kray took her seat and, for the next ten minutes, proceeded to laugh her tits off – on the inside, of course.
Brownlow shuffled and fidgeted out front, trying to make one and a half days of shoddy policing sound like a weeks’ work. His briefing contained nothing that could not have been uncovered by a rookie recruit using a laptop, an internet connection and a phone. Quade sat with her unimpressed look smeared across her face.
Brownlow didn’t so much bring his briefing to a conclusion, rather he ground it to a halt. He kind of ran out of words. Kray was loving the awkwardness.
‘Okay, let’s open it up for questions,’ Quade said, keen to maintain momentum. Officers and detectives bombarded Brownlow with a series of predictable questions, the majority to which Brownlow offered a stock response: ‘We haven’t got that far in the investigation.’ It was plain to everyone in the room that DI Brownlow hadn’t got very far at all. Brownlow looked over at Kray. It was her turn next.
Kray remained in her seat, sipping her lukewarm coffee. She had no intention of rescuing the little shit. That will teach you to walk away from me. She watched him drown. Eventually, the entertainment came to an end with Quade now wearing her seriously fucked off face, and Kray took the front.
She talked them through each of the murders, focussing on the ritual. She went on to explain the children’s rhyme and how that had led her to finding the second body.
‘If the killer is going to follow through the same pattern, then it is safe to assume that he has two more victims lined up.’
A hand shot up in the audience, a burly man with a cropped-top haircut. ‘Could it be a co-incidence, Roz? I mean, I understand how the verses in the rhyme can be interpreted to describe the victims but we could be making connections that aren’t there.’
‘We could, I agree. I’ve put a call into the mortuary to get some early post-mortem results.’ Kray’s briefing was thorough with few questions at the end. Kray eased into more practical matters, forming the group into teams and allocating tasking orders for the day.
‘There will be something that connects the victims. Go find it,’ was her closing remark.
The briefing broke up and people began chatting in their teams. Brownlow looked like he had lost his way to the gent’s toilet, flitting from one group to another trying to avoid the piercing gaze of ACC Quade. Eventually, Quade could take the charade no longer and called him over, marching him outside. Brownlow didn’t come back.
There was a rap on the door and the face of Dr Chris Millican appeared. Kray wandered over.
‘This is a surprise. Are you lost?’ she asked.
He cracked a smile and ran his fingers through his fringe. ‘No, I thought I’d deliver the info you asked for personally.’
He was wearing the same waistcoat and tight suit trouser combo that had caught her attention a few days previously. Kray kept her gaze firmly focused above the waistline.
‘Bloody hell, you must be a busy guy if you do this for all your customers.’ Kray ushered him across the hallway into her office and immediately regretted it. ‘Please excuse the mess. Things are a bit hectic at the moment.’
Millican looked arou
nd at the neat piles of paper and clear desk. ‘You’re joking, right? It looks like no one works here.’
‘What do you have for me?’
‘The results you wanted.’
He handed over a sheet of paper. Kray scanned it quickly before casting her eyes to the ceiling.
‘Bad news?’ he asked.
‘It is bad, but I was fully expecting it. Thanks for this.’ She held the printout in the air. ‘I have to get back in there.’
‘Before you go,’ Millican said, again sweeping his hand across his fringe. ‘I wondered if you liked wine?’
‘Do I like wine? I sometimes think it’s the only thing that keeps me going.’
He shuffled on the spot, looking down at his feet.
‘Only I wondered if you fancied having a glass of wine with me after work one day?’ Kray looked into his smiling eyes, the words drying up in her mouth. ‘I know a quiet little place not far from here that has the best wine cellar around.’
Kray regained control of her voice. ‘Umm, I don’t know what to say. I mean…’ She spun the wedding ring around on her finger.
‘I took the liberty of asking a couple of questions, so I know about your husband and what happened. I hope you don’t mind?’ He gave her that smile again, the one that reminded her so much of Joe.
‘No, no, I don’t mind. It’s just that…your timing could be better.’
‘Look, I understand, I just thought that if you fancied a wind-down drink at the end of the day… They do a sensational Chablis.’
Kray fiddled with her wedding ring. ‘I need to get back to the briefing.’
‘Okay.’ Millican had his hand on the doorframe, already on his way out. ‘If you do fancy trying that Chablis, you know where I am.’
‘Thanks.’ Kray held up the test results paper again and watched his pert bottom disappear down the corridor.
‘See you!’ he turned and called over his shoulder.
He caught me looking again! What the fuck is wrong with me?
Kray had to collect herself before going back into the incident room. That had taken her completely off balance. She was flattered and embarrassed in equal measure.
Her head was whirring - It would make a nice change to do something different after work. And besides it’s only… Get a fucking grip, woman, you got work to do!
Kray stormed back into the incident room.
‘Listen up, everyone, can I have your attention?’ The noise in the room subsided as Kray made her way to the front. ‘I have the results from the lab. They have analysed the stomach contents of last night’s victim, Teresa Franklin, and she ate something shortly before she was killed. It had not had time to break down in her stomach.’
The room fell deathly silent.
‘Do we win a prize if we guess what it was?’ asked one of the team.
‘The lab confirmed…it was roast beef.’
25
I wake with a jolt. My nose is inches from the wall, and for a split second, I am back in prison and the events of the past week have been a dream. Then, I glance up and see the lampshade hanging from the ceiling. We didn’t have lamp shades in jail. I breathe easy.
It’s Thursday, I quite like Thursdays.
I roll over and glance at the clock. Shit, look at the time! It never occurred to me to set an alarm, I’m always awake around seven am. It’s gone nine o’clock, and I’m working the ten-to-two shift today. I feel sluggish, despite just having the sleep of the dead. I have a pain lodged behind my eyes and my joints creak.
I hurry out of bed and straighten the quilt, tucking it under my pillows. A quick shower and an even quicker coffee and I’m down the stairs and out the front of the shop. My car is waiting, and the seats are cold as I get in and start the engine. The roads are pretty empty. It’s too early in the day for the throngs of ogling tourists.
When I drive out of town, it begins to rain. My head is foggy but there is a flicker of after-glow from the thrill of yesterday. Watching that bitch bleed out was a lovely moment. I managed not to over-do it with the electricity this time which made it all the more enjoyable. She was conscious enough to understand what was happening. Her eyes caught sight of the blood pouring, then the pain kicked in when she realised it was coming from her neck. She didn’t last long after that.
Shit, my tablets! I snap out of my thoughts when I remember that in my haste this morning I’d forgotten my pills. I spend the rest of the journey berating myself for my stupidity.
The car park is almost full as I pull up and run across the tarmac to get out of the rain. I go through my usual routine of clocking in and changing into my work gear. I deposit my latest treasure in a safe place and set off through the boning hall. The band-saws have not yet screamed into action and my ears are grateful for the relative silence.
At the back of the factory, I push through a metal door into my workspace and check the temperature on the tank. It reads sixty degrees Celsius. Perfect. I check the PH value of the liquor. That says eleven. Spot on. My work stations are ready to start the day, now all I’m missing is Cloe.
I can hear my customers arriving at goods-in and the clank of the trailer doors opening. Cloe bustles into the room, all hot and flustered. In a factory where everyone is either white or male, she is a novelty. The only black woman in the place, though maybe novelty is not the correct way to describe her. She is the female equivalent of Irvine, except maybe less attractive, and like Irvine she will probably say less than half a dozen words for the next seven hours of our shift.
She gives me a good morning wave of her hand and I wave back. That’s the morning greeting out of the way.
I hear the conveyor start up, won’t be long now. Cloe moves into position, ready to accept our first guest. The door in the wall opens up and the first pig swings in. Cloe takes hold of a front trotter and guides it over to the twelve feet long stainless-steel tank. I open up the hinged lid that runs along its length and a burst of steam rises up to the roof. The hog drops down and Cloe tugs at the front leg so the body of the pig lands length ways into the tank. I unhook its back leg from the chain and close the lid, pressing the green button on the control panel on the wall.
The whole contraption lurches into life. The rubber paddles running inside the full length of the tank spin round and round, rotating the pig in the hot water. I can time six minutes in my head to the second; I don’t need to hear the buzzer to tell me time is up. After the allotted time, the machine stops and I lift the lid. Another plume of steam clogs the air. Cloe wheels a metal table up to the mouth of the tank and presses a button. Eight levers lift the pig out of the water. I grab one leg, and Cloe grabs another, and we slide the animal out onto the trolley. It’s like trying to keep a bar of wet soap on a wet metal coaster. The hog slips and slides on the polished surface. I close the lid on the tank.
The pig is hot and steaming and covered in a white scum, which is a mixture of hair and skin from the tank. Cloe washes it off with a cold-water hose. While she is doing that, I take a hooked blade and remove the toe nails from the hooves. Then, we both set to work with our knives, scraping fast because the next one will be with us any minute. We scrape the blades across the surface removing the last remnants of loose skin and hair. The flesh beneath is creamy white. It never ceases to amaze me how much it resembles human skin. The difference is, when I do it, human skin comes away under the pressure of my knife.
We flip the pig over and clean the other side. Then, I stick hooks through the tendons of the back legs and a second chain conveyor lifts the pig clear of the table and through a gap in the wall to the bunging and evisceration stage. I’m glad I don’t work there. I’m a little squeamish about that kind of thing.
At noon, we take a break in the canteen. It serves hot food at all times of the day, needless to say, one of the options on the menu is always pork. It’s cheap, and the food is good quality, but I always choose a sandwich or a bowl of soup. I will be eating a full Chinese takeaway again tonight, and if I’m
not careful, I will be the size of a house.
I sit on my own before Cloe joins me. She nods and tucks into plate of food big enough to feed two people. I’m sure this is her main meal of the day. She doesn’t say anything and neither do I. it’s just like being back in prison.
The activity of the morning has helped to shake off my black mood and my headache has passed, though my hands keep going numb. I finish my sandwich and watch as Cloe carves her way through her meal. Memories come flooding back. I try to fight them off but they are too strong.
I give in, and with nothing better to do, I sink into another daydream.
My pathological hatred of the Telegraph and Teresa-fucking-Franklin, with her fluorescent coloured hair and pantomime glasses, continued unabated. I counted down the days until the next issue landed on the desk in the recreational area. I would pounce on it. tearing through the pages to reach page twelve. Her head and shoulders by-line picture glared at me from the top corner of the article.
Once the newspaper was discarded, I would cut out her column and keep them in my cell. Other inmates thought I had the hots for her. Nothing could be further from the truth. I wanted to fuck her, alright, but not in that way.
It was Thursday morning and I was waiting for the delivery to arrive. It was late and my anxiety was going through the roof. Had the bitch written another pack of lies about me or was it the turn of some other poor unfortunate to be in her firing line? Postman Pat arrived with his trolley.
‘Here you go,’ he said, being well used to me snatching it out of his hand.
I flicked through until I found her face goading me to do something to stop her. The page was headlined: Local Businessman Takes 10 Pieces of Silver and underneath was written: Local Tradesmen cast onto the Scrapheap. To my astonishment, the face of my ex-partner, John Graham, stared out at me from the page.
I scanned the article and it failed to sink in. I read it again and the cogs began to whir. I re-read it and my blood boiled over.