by Liz Mistry
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Epilogue
Untainted Blood
Liz Mistry
Copyright © 2017 Liz Mistry
The right of Liz Mistry to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
To Nilesh, my rock
and Ravi, Kasi & Jimi (the sprogs)
Restless Natives die
Whilst inky venom scores deep
Tattoos paint the sky
Have you read the other books in the DI Gus McGuire series?
Unquiet Souls
Amazon UK – Amazon US
Uncoiled Lies
Amazon UK – Amazon US
Prologue
Look North 19th November 2016.
‘The arrest of Tory MP Clive Clementon and his subsequent resignation from the highly-contested Bradford Central seat has wreaked even more havoc on the city. Bradford’s infamous Matchmaker Case earlier this year resulted in many high-profile celebrities, politicians and officials being investigated for their role in historic and current child abuse cases. Despite vigorous denials of his involvement in child trafficking, child abuse and paedophilia, it seems likely that Clementon is the latest in a long line of public figures to be brought to book for such crimes. A by-election early in the new year is a foregone conclusion amid speculation of a possible general election later in the year after Article 50 is triggered.
‘The Bradford Central seat was created during a manoeuvring of constituency boundaries, cynically described by some as an obvious move to create more Tory seats in the North of England. Now, with the incumbent MP resigning, and Bradford in turmoil after a series of gang-related killings and the outcome of the Bradford Central by-election in question, we eagerly await confirmation of the candidates … This is Binish Aziz, signing off for Look North, Bradford.’
February 2017
Friday
Chapter 1
03:30 The Kill Site
‘I love frosty mornings like this one. They are so invigorating, energising, full of promise and hope for the future, don’t you think, Tara?’ I smile when she nuzzles against my neck, her breath warm on my ear as she blows gently.
The other two horses aren’t interested in me and keep their distance. When I run my finger down her long nose, she tosses her head this way and that in response, making me laugh out loud. I know what she’s after. She can smell it, I’m sure. Thrusting my hand into my pocket, I pull out a perfectly formed cube of sweetness. Placing it flat on my palm, I extend it and grin, as in a single lick, she scoops it off and devours it. Her head dips down for more, and I take the opportunity to sink my fingers deep into her flowing mane, scratching long and hard, just the way she likes it.
Resting my head against hers, I continue to scratch her, savouring the musky horsey scent that erupts around me. I speak to her as if she is my best friend. For sure, she’s the only one I trust with these secrets.
‘Two down, and still nobody any the wiser,’ I say, laughing as her ears twitch at the sound of my voice. ‘They’ve found the latest one’s body. Not that it’ll do them any good. Why would it? I’m smarter than them, and I’m doing God’s work. The purification of the human race, bit by bit, little by little, that’s my aim.
‘If only more people would take up the mantle and join the struggle. We’ve sat back for too long and look what’s happened. They’ve overrun the city. No more. All it took for me to realise what had to be done was the election of their kind to our Parliament. They think they can represent me? No chance.’
I get out another sugar lump and give it to her. Tara sees everything, yet she keeps her own counsel. My secrets are safe with her. I pat her rump, not hard, barely enough to send her away. She doesn’t like the noise. It makes her uneasy, skittish. Best if she stays over there, under her tree. It’s funny how she never goes inside the old barn, except to eat her hay. Maybe she’s warm enough with only her rug on. Maybe she prefers being out under the stars. Who knows?
My fingers tingle at the thought of what I’m about to do. I stretch them, loosening them up, ready to create my masterpiece. I have a torch in my pocket, although the night sky is clear, and the moon lights my way as I walk back inside the old farmhouse. It’s so cold that I almost wish I’d kept my gloves on when stroking Tara. The shelter from the slight breeze that carries a promise of morning frost with it, is welcome. The prone figure on the floor looks up at me, struggling against the ties. I don’t know why they bother. I really don’t. All they do is hurt themselves even more and make the ties tighten around their
wrists. Not that I care. I block out their demeaning pleas and busy myself getting things set up. This one came around quicker than the others, and that suits me. The sooner I get this done, the sooner I can dump him. Moving with speed, I pull on a white overall and a pair of nitrile gloves. No point leaving any trace evidence for the police, is there?
The traditional razor I’ve opted for is sharp, much more precise, and it fits so well in my palm, as if it was made especially for me. I approach him, savouring how his eyes widen and his squirming increases as I near. Placing the razor down on the plastic sheeting, I pull a Stanley knife from my pocket. Humming to myself, I slit up the seams of his T-shirt and then along the shoulders before tugging it loose. I’ve always been a tidy person, so I take the time to fold it before placing it on the floor. Next, after I’ve emptied his pockets, his trousers get the same treatment and then his boxers. I dislike this part, and more so when the smell of excrement hits my nostrils. Disgusting animal! Good job I’m wearing gloves.
Clothes folded, I carry them out to the van and place them inside. It’s good to build the tension. I find my enjoyment is intensified with their fear. I go back inside and see that he’s begun to struggle again. ‘Tut, tut … can’t you give it a rest? I know your sort lack the intelligence of the superior race, but even you must be able to see that struggling is futile.’
Blood trickles down his wrists, staining the ties a russet hue. His face is contorted, partly because of the bruising and partly with his struggles. I lift the razor and hold it in front of him. His eyes fill with terror, and I laugh, enjoying the fact he doesn’t know what I’m going to do with it.
I lift an aerosol and spray shaving foam over his genitalia. He’s really panicking now. His skin’s all mottled and goose-bumpy with the cold. Happy, I begin my task. ‘Save your screaming for later … this is the easy bit.’
Saturday
Chapter 2
09:00 Bradford Royal Infirmary Mortuary
Dr Fergus McGuire had lined up the post-mortem findings on the large screen in the morgue and was studying images of the tattoos that had been found on both Asim Farooq and Manish Parmar. His son, Detective Inspector Angus McGuire, had been handed the case when the second body was discovered. Two bodies in the space of a fortnight, both displaying the same tattoo on their groin, made it a case for Angus’ specialist team. Neither tattoo showed any finesse, although the swastika was clearly discernible. Bruising around the area indicated they’d been applied ante-mortem. Such a waste! Dealing with death was the pathologist’s job, and Fergus loved it. He loved the science of it all, the feeling his work could provide answers for the grieving families. Sometimes, he could not get his head around the evil that existed in society … this was one of those times.
He glanced at his son, who was also studying the images, and sighed. Angus was wan, and his eyes, normally so blue, seemed dull, almost lifeless. It seemed to Dr McGuire he was treading on thin ice with him at the moment. He couldn’t seem to do anything right. He knew Angus still harboured guilt about Alice. He felt responsible, Dr McGuire understood that. After all, his son had inherited his mother’s over-zealous conscience. However, at this rate, it was going to kill him.
Anytime he or his wife asked about the therapy, Angus cut them down cold, refusing to say anything. Instead, he shut them out. He’d lost weight, and it was clear from the bags under his eyes that his insomnia was back. Even the sunshine streaks that threaded through his dreads seemed flat and drab, and his tanned skin had a yellow hue. If he didn’t know that the lad jogged for hours around Heaton every day, he’d think his son hadn’t seen daylight for months. He bit his lip. Why wouldn’t Angus just reach out to them?
As if sensing his father’s eyes on him, Angus exhaled and turned towards him. ‘Same killer?’
Nibbling on a few stray whiskers, Fergus made a mental note to get the beard trimmer out that evening. Corrine didn’t like it when his beard got too straggly. ‘Although the second tattoo is marginally more evenly administered, I’d say that’s more to do wi’ the tattooist having had some practise than a second practitioner. The design is the same, only slightly smoother this time. A definite amateur. And definitely a form of torture, unless, of course, the victim was unconscious.’
Gus pressed his lips together and shook his head. ‘No, I don’t reckon our killer was of a mind to make it painless for them. I think making it hurt was a major element of his MO. Probably got off on it. I suspect they were fully conscious and aware the entire time, poor sods.’
‘I tend to agree. Why choose that particular site for the tattoo, if you dinnae want it to hurt?’ He pointed to the area around the ink. ‘This extensive bruising is caused by the needle pricks penetrating deeper than they should. The skin in this area is particularly tender. If the tattooist wanted to administer maximum discomfort, they couldn’t have chosen a better place.’ Dr McGuire shuddered. The thought of the agony these men had endured made his scrotal sack wither. Didn’t bear thinking about. ‘Do you reckon it was sexual as well as racist?’
Gus’ lips tightened. ‘More than likely. Shaving and tattooing the groin must have a sexual significance, I’d have thought. I’ll check with Professor Carlton.’ Head to one side, Gus continued to study the marks. ‘How does he snatch the men? He somehow gets them out of their cars, moves them to another vehicle, and presumably transports them elsewhere to kill before taking them to the dump site. Neither of these men were small.’
‘Ah.’ Fergus McGuire turned and flicked to another image. ‘This is an injection site at the nape of the neck. The first victim had it too. I’ve sent bloods for tox results, although, as you know, many of thon date rape type drugs are undetectable after a few hours. I suspect the killer injected our victims from behind and then, whilst they were unconscious, applied restraints.’
He flicked a few images to show a ring of bruising around the arms and feet of both men. ‘Restraint marks. Each of the two men struggled forcefully against the restraints, as you can see. Again, an indication they were conscious during the torture. They are consistent with bog-standard cable ties.’
‘That explains how he gets them to stay still long enough for him to do it. Compo says it’d take a good half hour to apply that to a willing participant, so the men had to be subdued somehow.’ Angus studied the images. ‘Cause of death?’
Dr McGuire pulled up a close-up of the neck area. ‘Asphyxiation. It’s clear from the ligature abrasions and the resulting bruising in this area, the victim was strangled with some sort of rope. Again, similar to the first victim. I’ve extracted fibres which I’ve also sent to the lab. Looks like some sort of hemp as opposed to the more modern nylon ropes people favour nowadays.’ He pulled up a series of other close-up images. ‘Petechial dots in the eyes and swelling round the mouth and tongue.’
‘Owt else?’ asked Gus.
Dr McGuire clicked on a new image. ‘Post-mortem hypostasis,’ he peered at Gus over the top of his glasses, ‘or livor mortis to you, indicates that the body has been kept in a horizontal position. Some strange striations across the back and going vertically up parallel to the spine indicate they’ve lain on a board, or something with three-inch-wide vertical columns, before being left at the scene. The columns appear to be joined together by a series of horizontal bars, each four inches wide. The deep purple lividity is, again, consistent with strangulation.’
Gus studied the marks. ‘Looks like these were caused by whatever the killer used to move the bodies. Any idea how long the bodies were on this surface before they were moved to the dump site?’
‘Well, the fact that those marks are fainter than the pressure points at the shoulders and buttocks indicate the victims were only on there a couple of hours before being moved. Full lividity takes about six hours, and I’ve put time of death at between three and six on Friday morning. So, I reckon he was moved no later than eight and, quite probably, earlier.’
‘Can you give me anything else?’
Dr McGuire rai
sed a finger in the air and smiled, ‘There is one thing. I checked for debris from the nails and hair and so on, and came up with zilch. However, we may have been lucky, for it appears I’ve found some saliva specks on the victim’s face. I’ve sent them off to the lab; mind you, it’s no’ open till Monday. Ah’ve no’ put a rush on it. It may belong to the victim, but I’ve got my fingers crossed it’s our killer’s.’
It wasn’t a lot, nonetheless it was better than nothing. Gus would get Compo to see what he could make of the lividity marks. He was good at sourcing things using his weird and wonderful databases. ‘Swastikas, strangulation and Asian males displayed naked in a cross shape are not good signs. Not good signs at all, especially not in this political climate,’ said Gus. Frowning, he drew his fingers through his dreads. ‘… and, of course, we’re understaffed.’
Dr McGuire pretended not to notice his son’s shoulders had slumped, and instead, he flicked another glance at the tattoos. He was on the point of suggesting they go for a drink or, at the very least, have a drink in his office, when Gus swung his bag onto his shoulder and walked towards the door with an abrupt, ‘Got to get off. See ya later, Dad.’
Reaching out, the pathologist grabbed his son’s arm, forcing him to stop. ‘Och, you’ve surely got time for a drink wi’ your old man before you go rushing off?’
Not meeting his dad’s eyes, Gus said, ‘I’m running late. Dr Mahmood waits for no-one, you know that.’
Torn between feeling glad Gus was going to see his psychiatrist and hurt he clearly would rather do that than share a drink with him, Dr McGuire released his arm. He waited until Gus was almost at the door before saying, ‘What happened to Alice wisnae your fault, Angus. You’ve got to let it go, son. You can’t carry everything on your shoulders.’
Closing his eyes for a second, Gus sighed, then, with a grimace, he said in a voice so hopeless, it sent chills down his father’s back, ‘Then whose fault was it?’
Fergus shook his head as his son left. Sometimes, you just have to let them get on with it, he thought, feeling as if his heart had been ripped out, as well as Gus’. Guilt was a terrible thing.