Price to Pay, A

by Simms, Chris

  Iona could hear it playing. Applause rang out.

  The constable tried calling again. ‘Mr Williams? Mr Williams? We’re police, can you hear us?’

  The TV played on. Iona pressed the phone more tightly against her ear.

  ‘Doesn’t seem to be anyone here. TV room is empty. There’s … oh … Mr Williams? Sir?’

  Another voice. Female. ‘Jesus, is that blood? Sir, can you hear—’

  Iona sat up, eyes opening. ‘What’s going on? What is it?’

  ‘Check for a pulse. Can you feel … No? Nothing? OK, Sarah, get back. We need to be out of here. Detective Khan? He’s here – there’s damage to his head. My colleague was unable—’

  Iona was on her feet, shouting at Roebuck in his side office.

  Within ten minutes, Gowerdale Road was clogged with emergency vehicles. Iona and Martin arrived a few seconds behind Roebuck. They pulled in behind his car and approached the taped-off area at the front of number eleven. Roebuck swept through and vanished inside the property.

  ‘Detectives Everington and Khan,’ Martin announced as they reached the outer cordon. Since she’d raised the alert back at the CTU, Martin had been subdued. Now, at the crime scene itself, he turned to her. ‘Go on, you can take the lead.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah, it was your shout.’

  She could see a pair of constables talking to a sergeant beside the front door. The male was tall and appeared to be in his early twenties. The female looked ill and was about ten years older. Iona approached them. ‘Is it Michael and Sarah? I’m Detective Khan. It was me you were patched through to just earlier.’

  Michael turned and looked down at her, lips parting in surprise. Sarah blinked. Used to people being surprised by her appearance, Iona looked briefly to the house. ‘You did well.’ She smiled at them.

  Michael regained his composure first. ‘Er, thanks. Yeah, my first body.’

  Iona could see the house was already bustling with people. It was unlikely she’d be permitted beyond the front door. ‘Not nice, is it?’

  They nodded together. ‘He was on his side – head on the armrest of the sofa. Skull looked like it had been caved in.’

  A hammer blow, Iona thought. There’d been no word, so far, about any laptop. ‘Did you get a look round the front room before coming back out?’

  ‘No, we withdrew as soon as we were sure he was dead.’

  She tapped her toe in frustration: they were too late. Unless, by chance, the killer had been disturbed before he’d found it. ‘Where’s the person who works at the Aquatics Centre; the one who called the police in the first place?’

  He nodded at the patrol car on the opposite side of the street. ‘In there, giving a statement, I think.’

  ‘Cheers.’ She turned to Martin. ‘I’m going to pop across. Coming?’

  ‘Iona, we’re meant to be over at the care home in Heaton Chapel, remember?’

  She looked back at him. ‘Seriously? You want to head there right now?’

  ‘OK, OK.’ He made a fending motion with his hands. ‘Do what you want to do. I’ll wait in the car.’

  She headed swiftly across the road, smarting at his petulant tone. If this had been your call, she thought, there’s no way you’d be so keen to clear off. She leaned in at the driver’s window of the squad car. The man on the back seat gazed straight back at her with dull eyes. Probably still taking in what’s just happened, she thought. ‘Hello there.’ She turned to the officer in the front seat and briefly showed her ID. ‘Detective Khan. Anything?’

  He laid a hand on the steering wheel. ‘Not apart from what he reported to the crime scene officers, if that’s what you mean. Picking up the victim was a regular arrangement; he’d swing by and they’d car share.’

  She peered into the rear of the vehicle once more. The man was now staring off to the side. ‘Sir? Could I ask how long was it before you gave up at the front door and went round to the back?’

  His eyes shifted to her but his head didn’t move. ‘A minute at most.’

  ‘And you could hear the TV was on?’

  He nodded.

  ‘So you made your way round to the rear of the property. Did you notice any cars pass by on the road?’

  He began to shake his head, but stopped. ‘Just a man walking off. I could see him through the hedge. Then I saw the gate for the back yard was—’

  Iona cut in. ‘This man. Which direction was he walking?’

  ‘Away from me. Off up the side road.’

  ‘Did you see his face?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What was he wearing?’

  ‘I don’t know. A darkish jacket.’ His eyes lifted. ‘He was carrying something.’

  Iona felt a stab of adrenalin. ‘Did you see what it was?’

  ‘No, it was in his hands. Cradling it, kind of.’

  ‘You mean like you’d cradle a baby?’

  ‘No, not a baby. It was square-ish. Flat. I thought it was maybe a pizza.’

  ‘Was he in a hurry? Was he strolling casually?’

  ‘Hurrying – yes.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Not sure. I was looking at the back door by then.’

  Iona addressed the policeman in the front. ‘We need to conduct a formal interview, right now.’ She stood up straight and was in the process of calling DCI Roebuck when he came rushing down the garden path, pursued by another detective.

  She started jogging over. ‘Sir?’

  He caught sight of her. ‘Follow us, Iona!’

  Roebuck ran towards his vehicle, calling over his shoulder. ‘The murder victim had a message on his mobile. His mum, saying the laptop he’d given her wasn’t working!’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Liam stood in the darkness, eyes on the building where Libby Williams lived. It wasn’t going to be easy getting in. The reception area was unmanned, but you had to be buzzed in by a resident or whoever looked after the place. A janitor or caretaker. CCTV cameras were above the entrance and in the ceiling of the lobby.

  He almost laughed. It didn’t matter any more. He and Nina would be out of the country in a few more hours. So what if the pigs eventually recognized him from the footage? Add it to the forensics they’d eventually pinpoint at the various murder scenes. If they caught him now, he was fucked. One old woman on the list would hardly make a difference.

  He pulled on the tabard with reflective panels, placed a baseball cap on his head and strolled across the lawned area. The toolbox in his hand was small; a few screwdrivers in the top tray, just the hammer beneath.

  What was the flat number? Six, that was it. Ground floor. That made things easier. ‘Mrs Williams? It’s the engineer. I’m calling about your broadband connection. You spoke to someone at our office earlier on?’

  Her voice was quite posh, like old people liked to sound whenever they spoke into anything. ‘Oh, yes. She said you’d be on your way. Come in and turn left through the double doors that are directly in front.’

  The door clicked and he stepped inside, aware that the CCTV cameras were trained directly at him. Keeping his head down, he held up a finger as he crossed the lobby. The thought of a crowd of detectives looking at that later on made him grin. If it wasn’t for the panel of mailboxes on the opposite wall, the place could have been a service station motel: blue nylon carpets and green fire escape signs. Metal plates at the base of each door, black smears where they’d been bumped by wheelchair tyres. He hated old people.

  Beyond the double doors was a corridor. Flats one to seven, said a sign. He followed the arrow. A radio was playing somewhere. Wurlitzer music. Memories of Blackpool flashed up. Shivering in a pub’s concrete courtyard, Coke and crisps long-finished, waiting for his mum to come back out and take him home. Then explosions of laughter from inside and behind her cackles the sound of one of those bloody piano things. Its noise would carry on the breeze from a big hall down the road, notes rising and falling, building and building until she emerged, sta
ggering, lipstick smeared, looking like the organ sounded: crazy. Back to the bedsit. Sometimes chips on the way. Slurring her words, she’d tuck him up before vanishing back off into the night.

  He focused on the door at the corridor’s end. The music was coming from beyond it. The next seaside he saw would be different to Blackpool. It would be sunny and clean and there’d be no fucking Wurlitzer music. And he’d be with Nina, not the pissed slag he’d had for a mum.

  He knocked on the door, nice and gentle. The old dear who, earlier on, had been peering at him from the computer opened up.

  ‘Do come in. I hope you’re not still working just because of me.’

  It took him a moment to cotton on. ‘Oh, no – I’m on lates this week. I won’t be home until morning.’

  ‘My husband used to work nightshifts.’ She led him towards a small sitting room. The Wurlitzer music got louder. ‘He was a printer – newspapers. In the days when all the letters were little blocks.’ She smiled over her shoulder. ‘Before computers took over. Here it is. The Spotify thing is working, as you can hear. I don’t know, sometimes I think they’re more trouble than they’re worth.’

  Stepping aside, she gestured at the laptop on the circular table in the corner.

  ‘Nothing worse than a misbehaving computer, is there?’ Liam replied, stepping closer. It was a Dell. On and on went the bastard music.

  ‘What with that and mobile phones. I’m forever being bothered by sales people.’ She pointed at a clunky-looking Nokia on the side. ‘I ignore the thing, mostly.’ As if on cue, it started to ring. She briefly scrutinized the screen. ‘Absolutely no idea who that is.’ She put it back down. ‘I won’t even ask what you need to do. The fact those things don’t even have wires is confusing enough for me. A cup of coffee?’

  Liam was checking the laptop’s casing. No label had been scratched off the front corner. Nina’s. It had to be. ‘You what?’

  Her face stiffened slightly. ‘I asked if you’d like a drink.’

  ‘Oh, no. Don’t bother.’ He crouched down and flicked the toolbox clasps up. ‘This won’t take two minutes.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  They raced south, away from the city centre and towards Poynton. En route, Martin called Roebuck and got a hurried explanation of what was happening.

  Someone had heard the mobile phone beeping on the windowsill, saw the missed call had come from Mum and then listened to her answerphone message. An address for her had then been found in a book on Andrew Williams’ bedside table; she lived in a sheltered housing unit called Hope Green on the far side of Poynton. A call had been made to the nearest police station. A few years ago, that would have been in Poynton itself. Cutbacks now meant it was only manned at certain times during the day. Instead, a patrol car was being sent from Hazel Grove.

  ‘Hazel Grove?’ Iona replied, jaw set tight as she pursued Roebuck’s tail-lights, the sound of his car’s siren clearly audible. ‘We’re going through that now.’

  Martin looked at the line of shops zipping past. ‘Shit. We’ll only be just behind it, then.’

  ‘Just ring the bloody care home, surely?’ Iona demanded, keeping in Roebuck’s slipstream as traffic parted ahead of them.

  ‘Sergeant Fairfield’s doing that now,’ Martin responded, one hand reaching for the dashboard as Iona had to brake sharply. ‘He’s got hold of the concierge.’

  The bus moved out of their way and Iona hit the accelerator once more. Barely five minutes later they’d gone through the main part of Poynton at high speed. Countryside was opening up around them when Roebuck started indicating right. As they slowed to take the turning, Iona could see a police car parked before the doors leading into a building trying to look like a normal residential house, only it was about three times too big.

  A uniformed officer was visible in the lobby area. He was talking to a middle-aged man in a beige gilet who kept flapping one arm about. The gesture filled Iona with dread. Gravel caused them to skid slightly as the car came to a halt behind Roebuck’s. He was already out and asking questions. Sergeant Fairfield was at the rear of the vehicle, unlocking the weapons box in the boot.

  ‘She didn’t answer,’ the concierge said. ‘I knocked three times. Then I heard the police siren,’ he nodded at the uniformed officer, ‘and came back here.’

  ‘So you didn’t open her door?’ Roebuck asked.

  The concierge shook his head.

  ‘Can you? You’ve got an access key?’

  ‘Yes.’ He removed a bunch from the pocket of his gilet. ‘But I only like to go into a resident’s room without their permission in exceptional circumstances.’

  ‘And you think she’s there?’

  ‘She rarely goes out. Just when her son takes her.’

  ‘OK. We need to go in.’ He looked to his side. ‘Sergeant Fairfield?’

  He gave a nod, one hand hidden in the pocket of his overcoat. ‘Do you know the layout of her flat?’

  The concierge turned to him. ‘I do. They’re all the same: bathroom opposite the bedroom in the corridor on the other side of the front door, sitting area and kitchen straight ahead.’

  ‘OK, cheers.’

  The concierge led them all down the corridor to room six. Iona could hear someone coughing in number three. Really coughing, like a bit of lung had come away and got stuck. It ended in a loud spit. They were gathered outside number six when the door opposite half opened. A silver-haired man with a sharp nose looked out.

  ‘Back in your room!’ Martin whispered, badge raised. The door slowly closed as the concierge unlocked Libby Williams’ door and stepped away.

  Roebuck pushed it open and Fairfield slipped inside, the barrel of a Glock directed at the floor.

  ‘Mrs Williams! Police! Are you here?’

  No reply.

  ‘Mrs Williams?’ Fairfield nodded at the closed doors on the left and right before moving swiftly and silently past them and into the room at the far end of the short passage.

  Iona felt cold air on her face. It was streaming out of the flat. A window must be wide open. Fairfield looked rapidly about him, gun swinging with each turn of his head. Something off to the side caught his attention for a moment. He vanished from view. When he reappeared, he moved back to the closed doors, checking one room then the other. There was no sign of the Glock when he came out of the bathroom. ‘Clear. Front room, boss.’

  His voice was flat and Iona knew they were too late. Their man had gone, taking the laptop and leaving another body in his wake.

  She whirled round and slapped the corridor wall with her palm.

  Nina opened the lower door and knocked. ‘Hi, you two, it’s me! Watching telly, are you?’

  The tinny noise of laughter cut out and Chloe’s voice called back. ‘Hi, Nina, we’re in here!’

  She locked the door behind her and walked up the short corridor, bag swinging from one hand. They were slumped on the beanbags, faces turned inquisitively in her direction. ‘Anyone for ice cream?’

  ‘You are joking!’ Chloe rolled to the side and scrabbled to her knees. ‘Really?’

  ‘I got Winter Berry Brownie, Peanut Butter Cup or Mint Chocolate Chunk.’

  Both girls let out squeals of delight as Nina jumped on to the sofa and held up the bag. ‘Who wants what?’

  ‘Winter Berry Brownie, please, please, please,’ Chloe said, both hands outstretched.

  Nina tossed her the tub. ‘Madison?’

  ‘Mint Chocolate Chunk!’

  Nina lobbed it over. ‘Hey, I’ve got some other exciting news. You know your flights? I managed to bring them forward.’

  Madison paused, the lid of her ice cream half-peeled back. ‘When?’

  ‘How does tomorrow morning sound?’ She dug out a lump of ice cream and regarded it with relish. ‘Different flights, still. I tried to get you going together.’ She cocked her head and looked at Madison. ‘I’ve been meaning to say, have you ever thought of a shorter hairstyle?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Madison
tentatively replied.

  ‘It’s just that, in Club Soda, the waitresses with short hair seem to get the best tips. Arab men are so used to their women having long hair. They just love a blonde bob. Don’t you think she’d look good with one, Chloe? I do.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  They sat in silence, waiting for word from Roger Wilson, the Forced Marriage Unit manager stationed at the High Commission in Islamabad. Everyone’s eyes kept touching on the pyramid-shaped speaker at the centre of the table. Conference calls. Iona couldn’t stand them.

  News had come that Sravanti had been successfully lifted from the hotel where she was being held. Someone – probably a member of staff – had phoned up to the room as the FMU staff and local police had appeared through the hotel doors. The brother, Khaldoon, had fled, but the girl was safe. She’d been answering questions for the last hour-and-a-quarter.

  ‘My apologies about this.’ The voice sounded tinny and artificial. A hiss of static smothered the ‘s’ sounds. ‘Mr Wilson is just attending to something with the local police, he won’t be long.’

  O’Dowd needlessly craned his neck forward. ‘OK, we understand.’ His voice had been reasonable, but the look he sent round the room spoke of annoyance. It was now almost two in the morning. Everyone needed some sleep; things weren’t going to go any slower the next day.

  ‘So,’ O’Dowd said, turning to DCI Sullivan. ‘You think it was Nirpal Haziq sighted over in Levenshulme?’

  There was a slightly wooden quality to O’Dowd’s voice that caused Iona to look up.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Sullivan sounded exactly the same.

  Of course, Iona realized, glancing at the speaker phone. The knowledge of their voices being relayed to another location was making both men sound like bad actors.

  ‘We know Haziq’s parents live on Hopkins Avenue. A patrol car coming away from an incident at a betting shop on that road thinks they sighted him by the train station. He was gone by the time they’d turned the car round.’