Untainted Blood

by Liz Mistry

  Chapter 3

  10:00 Somerset House, Shipley

  Nemo was gone!

  Gus, breathing heavily, leaned against the aquarium, hands splayed against the glass. Knowing it was futile, he peered through the too-cheery bubbles, hoping the hulking fish he’d named Nemo would swim from behind one of the ornamental rocks. Where was he? Nemo had been his companion for months now, his one ally in the psychiatrist’s camp. He’d grown used to coming in and drawing his abstract patterns on the glass for Nemo to follow. It calmed him … readied him for his session with Dr Mahmood, and now, it seemed Nemo was no more. How much more loss was he expected to deal with?

  From nowhere, an almost uncontrollable urge to smash the glass engulfed him. He imagined the water gushing out, sending a tumble of rainbow coloured fish onto the waiting room’s newly carpeted floor. His chest tightened, and as his breath turned to shallow pants, he knew he was dangerously close to having a panic attack. Stumbling away from the tank, he flung himself onto a cushioned chair and closed his eyes, trying to calm his breathing. The only thing he could see, though, was the damn tank without Nemo. He tried to force his thoughts to the safe place he’d established with Dr Mahmood. Like a boomerang, they stubbornly took him instead to the funeral, and his breathing became even shallower.

  Sweat dripped from his dreads, onto his brow and into his eyes. The salt stung them, making them water. His hands balled into fists, as he struggled against the vision that was so vivid, it was as if he’d been transported back to that day in November.

  It would have been marginally better if the snow hadn’t turned to sleet, making the occasion even darker. Frost bit his fingers as he stood, straight-backed, trying to keep a hold of himself … and he’d managed, just. It had been touch-and-go, but with his parents, one on either side of him like incongruous bodyguards, he’d gotten through it. Now, however, he was tortured by all the things he hadn’t said to her … all the thoughts he hadn’t articulated … all the times he’d remained silent. Now, it was too late … she was gone.

  Chapter 4

  19:05 The Fort

  The session with Dr Mahmood, even by Gus’ standards, hadn’t gone well at all. So, feeling edgy, he’d dropped his car outside his house in Mariners Drive and headed into Heaton Woods. A foray into the woods normally calmed him; not today, though. Despite the crisp air and a sighting of one of the wood’s elusive deer, Gus’ spirits remained low.

  After strolling aimlessly for hours, he headed down to Sean’s pond and hunched on the bench overlooking the small pool, ignoring the drop in temperature that signalled the prospect of snow. He wished his dog was with him. Bingo, though, was vacationing with his mum for the duration of Gus’ investigation into the tattoo murders. He was working unpredictable hours, and it was easier for his parents to look after the dog. Besides which, Bingo loved spending time with his ‘sisters’ as his mother, much to Gus’ amusement, referred to their dogs. If his parents’ bull terriers, Heather and Meggie, were indeed Bingo’s siblings, then Bingo was, without doubt, the runt of the litter. Nevertheless, his little West Highland Terrier was also the boss.

  When Gus got home, he opened his fridge, found two cans of beer and a mushy cucumber and gave up on the idea of eating. He wasn’t hungry anyway. He seemed to have permanently lost his appetite at the minute. He changed into his jogging gear, complete with the high visibility jacket his mother insisted he wore. Setting off, he took a circuitous route up Emm Lane onto Leylands and down Scotchman Road, before arriving at The Fort, sweating and wet from the sleet shower that was beginning to pick up. His run had left him shaky-legged and hadn’t really done anything to calm him down. He knew the trembling was a combination of the after-effects of his panic attack, lack of food, too much activity and an excess of caffeine. He was dog-tired, yet he couldn’t stop pushing his body beyond the realms of endurance.

  Deep down, he knew something would give soon, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d be in pieces and unable to function. His boss had warned him, as had his parents. He was on a downward spiral, one he had no control over, and he knew if he didn’t get a grip soon, he was in danger of splintering into irreparable pieces. The dynamic talking therapy was hard work, and he knew he was resisting opening up. After Greg’s death, it had taken him time, and as Dr Mahmood kept telling him, he had gone through a lot, what with the Matchmaker Case, followed soon after by the gangland murders. She told him he needed time, which was a shame because time was one thing he didn’t have, and he refused to stop working. So, she’d upped his medication and was monitoring him. Every session now seemed to be about his feelings of guilt and letting those go. He ran up the front steps of the police station, a glower on his face. A homeless man who’d taken shelter on the top step jumped to his feet and ran down the stairs as Gus pounded up. Shit. Now, he was terrorising the public.

  Inside, The Fort’s air conditioning dried his sweat, making him shiver. He waved to the duty officer, who grinned back with a ‘You back again? No rest for the wicked.’

  Gus jogged to the changing rooms. When he got into the shower, he cranked the heat up until it almost scalded his aching body. It felt good, like he deserved it, so he stayed there for as long as he could bear it, until his skin smarted in the heat. He liked weekend evenings at the station. The quietness gave him a chance to think, as well as catch up on the interminable paperwork he was obligated to do. It was only at shift change that it got boisterous and loud, and for that hour, he could almost cope with the racket. Mind you, the uniforms were a nice lot. Gus respected them, and they, he hoped, respected him in return. Gus’ philosophy was if you treated people right, they would repay you in kind. It wasn’t often he was proved wrong. Recently, though, he’d found it hard to live by his own rules.

  He got out, towelled himself dry and got dressed. With his dreads still dripping, he walked along to the investigation room and was pleased to see it empty for a change.

  One of the hardest things for him was interacting with his team. The solicitous glances he often intercepted drove him wild; the concerned looks made him want to yell at his colleagues. He knew this was unreasonable. Knew, too, it was placing excessive pressure on Sampson and Compo. He was two detectives down and only too aware he was functioning below par.

  Photos of the two murdered men were on the board, and Gus moved over to study it. When Asim Farooq’s body had been found in a known dogging area outside Haworth two weeks ago, the media, in particular, Jez Hopkins from the Chronicle, had blown it up into a frenzy of self-righteous spin. The moral majority condemned the man for his supposedly ‘alternative’ lifestyle. The media focus had shifted away from the fact Asim Farooq had been murdered, and instead concentrated on deriding the victim and his relatives. His poor family had been distraught, not only by Asim’s death, but by their community’s reaction to where he’d been found. His pregnant wife had been unable to grieve properly in the midst of the scandal, and his parents and siblings had been denied the comfort of their community.

  Gus had kept an eye on the case, suspecting it would, sooner or later, land on his doorstep. He consulted, on the quiet, with Professor Sebastian Carlton, the forensic psychologist from Leeds Trinity University he’d met the previous year. Carlton had trained agents at the FBI Behavioural Analysis Unit before opting for a quieter existence this side of the pond in Horsforth. His first suggestion had been to keep the tattoo out of the media, and Gus had agreed. They always needed ways of weeding out the few who falsely declared their guilt. Thankfully, the previous senior investigating officer had been of the same mind. Carlton had suspected Asim’s murder would not be a one-off, and when Manish Parmar had been discovered in woodland near Pudsey, it seemed his suspicions were correct. Gus was glad the swastika tattoo had been kept from the press.

  Apart from the tattoo, both men had been placed naked in a cross position, arms extended to either side, legs straight, and feet crossed at the ankle. Their clothes had been sliced off their bodies and folded neatly near their he
ads with their possessions on top. The forensic reports had come back with very little. This killer was forensically savvy, by the looks of things, and they still were awaiting the tox screen on Manish Parmar.

  Since the previous day, Compo and Sampson had been trying to find links between the two victims. Neither had been killed at their dump site. The tattooing had been done ante-mortem, and Gus knew they’d been killed somewhere where their screams wouldn’t be heard. He wanted his team to find the link between these two men as he was sure that would help them find the killer. Their paths must have crossed somewhere, although it wasn’t clear where, as Asim worked in Manchester as a financial consultant and Manish was a taxi driver. Both men lived in different areas of Bradford, Asim in Harden and Manish in Keighley.

  Both men’s cars had been discovered in areas with few cameras, making it difficult to establish the killer’s possible vehicle. Their locations also supported the idea they led alternative lifestyles. One in a well-known, dogging area and the other in an area notorious for the ‘alternative’ sex trade; S&M and the like. The fact they’d also been dumped in similar areas made Gus suspect both victims had been stalked. He’d also got Compo to source a few tattoo experts in the hope they could shed some light on either the equipment used or the artist, and he’d managed to schedule a meeting with Mo’s tattooist in the morning. With it being Sunday, he was grateful to his best friend for wangling this.

  Slumping in his chair, legs crossed at the ankle and resting on the table, Gus studied the crime boards. This killer hadn’t finished yet, of that he was sure. Not by a long shot. They really needed to get a handle on this and quick. So far, the uniforms had come up with nothing, and Gus was champing at the bit for information to propel the case forward. A sudden weariness made him close his eyes. Only for a minute, he promised himself. The gentle click of the radiator as it cooled and the buzz of the dodgy light in the corner of the room soothed him into a light doze … which was broken when the door was thrust open, and DCI Nancy Chalmers, skirt rustling as she walked, burst into the room. ‘Just the man I didn’t want to see!’ she said, her tone business-like.

  Gus started and pulled himself upright, blinking at her. The last person he needed to encounter right now was his boss. Despite her undoubted professionalism, at times, she fussed around him like a mother hen, and it really pissed him off. He wanted to be left to get on with his job. He didn’t need her pecking her solicitous beak into his business. When he spoke, his tone was sharper than he intended. ‘What!’

  ‘Don’t you take that tone with me, Gus McGuire!’ She glared at him, and then, when he blushed, she shook her head and softened her tone. ‘Get yourself home, Gus. You’re knackered, and you’re no good to me like this. GO HOME!’

  Eyes flashing, Gus stood up and stretched. This was exactly the sort of crap he hated. An image of Nancy’s expression if he told her to ‘piss off’ flashed through his mind, and he found himself more tempted than he should have been to blurt it out. He took a deep breath and banished the thought. He was being ungrateful. Nancy wasn’t solely his boss, she was a family friend, and she hadn’t had it easy either since the Matchmaker Case. Resigned to politeness, he said, ‘I’m fine. Just grabbing a bit of shut-eye, that’s all.’

  Nancy strode over and positioned herself in front of his desk, hands on hips. Gus sighed. He recognised the implacable look on her face. No way was she going to budge on this, and to be honest, he didn’t have the energy to argue. With a short nod, he moved over, grabbed his bag and some folders, and headed to the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned and studied her, taking in the paleness of her face and the wrinkles that had appeared there since the previous year. Feeling guilty for his earlier bad thoughts, he smiled and said, ‘I’m not the only one who needs to get some sleep, Nancy. Why don’t you drop me off on your way home?’

  Nancy held his gaze for a few seconds, and then, shoulders slumping, she nodded. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I could do with an early night. I’ll get my things.’ She walked over to the door, and as she reached Gus, she grinned, a glimpse of her old humour in her eyes. ‘What are we like? It’s a Saturday night, and we’re both heading home to a microwave meal, Ant and Dec’s Saturday Night Takeaway and a lonely bottle of whisky. Not exactly jet-setters, are we?’

  Gus grinned. She had a point, and in all the years he’d known her, first as a surrogate aunt and now as his boss, she’d never been wrong. Her close relationship with his mum often meant with Gus, she blurred the professional boundaries. Sometimes, like now, he hated it; then again, most times, he was glad to know she was in his corner.

  ‘Mind you, some might say I’m past it; on the other hand, you should at least be getting a shag on a Saturday night, lad.’ She stretched out her palm and held it to his cheek. ‘You need to get over yourself and start living a little. Get yourself laid once in a while, instead of moping about Alice and Sadia, and taking all the blame for something you had no control over. As we both know through experience, life’s too damn short for that.’ She sniffed and headed for the door. ‘I’ll meet you at the car.’

  She had a point. It had been months since Sadia. Still, he wasn’t interested in that. Not right now. Especially not after the trouble he ended up in last time. No, things were too raw in that department. Following her from the office, Gus cast a last glance at the pictures of the two dead men before snapping off the lights. He’d do his best to get to the bottom of their deaths, but first, sleep. He needed sleep, and whisky! He grinned. A bit of Ant and Dec and a frozen lasagne would do him for tonight. Besides, he was meeting Mo the following day. Who said he didn’t have any fun?

  Sunday

  Chapter 5

  10:30 Hebden Bridge

  Mo was like a kid on a trip to the seaside, bouncing about the car, chattering on about everything and nothing. It made Gus smile, and he knew that was Mo’s intention. When he’d wakened, he’d been cold, and his leg was cramping from sleeping for half the night on the couch. It was his own fault. To avoid nightmares, he had taken to dozing on the sofa, instead of going to bed. The result was, most mornings, he woke up with an aching back and felt more tired than he’d been before he went to sleep. He knew he had to break the habit, and he promised himself next time, he would sleep in his bed.

  He’d picked Mo up from his huge terraced house off Oak Lane in Manningham. His friend lived with his wife and children in the street behind his café, which was aptly named Mo’s SaMosas. Unlike Gus’ house, Mo’s was homely, filled with scattered cushions and toys. The spacious kitchen was covered with paintings and drawings done by the children, and it had a lived-in feel to it. As soon as he’d arrived, he’d been pulled into their chaotic, loving existence. He’d given sweets and hugs to each of Mo’s five girls, all of whom were as beautiful as their mother, Naila, and as kind and good natured as their father.

  Gus loved them, and after being in their company for a mere ten minutes, his spirits lifted. He knew he should spend more time with them. When he and Gabriella had first gotten married, kids had been part of their plans. Hmph! He couldn’t imagine having them now, though. Couldn’t imagine making that sort of commitment again. According to Mo, the girls were always asking after their Uncle Gus, and it seemed like ages since he’d taken them out. As they climbed over him, each vying for his attention, he was happier than he had been in months. Maybe Mo should hire them out as a therapy for depression.

  Amid moans that he was leaving too soon, he promised them a trip to the cinema in the near future, an offer that was met with whoops of glee. Naila had grinned and said, ‘You do know it’ll cost you a small fortune, Gus? They’ll milk you dry with their demands for popcorn and all.’

  Gus grinned and ruffled the hair of Mumtaz, the youngest. ‘If I can’t buy the prettiest girls in Bradford some popcorn, then there’s something far wrong.’ At last, he managed to extricate himself from their hugs, and he and Mo had set off.

  Today’s outing, despite Mo’s holiday mood, was a work trip. Mo, a
t Gus’ request, was taking him to meet his friend the tattoo artist, Emily Gilpin. She’d applied all of Mo’s many tattoos, and according to Mo, what she didn’t know about the tattooing business wasn’t worth knowing. Gus hoped she had a solid stomach, as the pictures he’d packed to show her were not for the faint-hearted. She’d agreed to meet them on a Sunday because of the urgency of the investigation, and he was appreciative of that. Feeling as if there was something Mo wasn’t telling him, Gus shook off the faint suspicion his mate had something up his sleeve, and put his friend’s giddiness down to the two of them spending time together for the first time in a couple of months.

  As they drove down the steep slope into Hebden Bridge, with its Victorian sandstone houses apparently shaped on a whim to fit the landscape, Mo directed him past the pretty market square along the main road towards the canal where they parked up in a pub car park. Jumping out of the car, Mo told Gus after their meeting, lunch was on him, and then, the pair of them walked against the bracing wind to the canal. Despite it being Sunday, it was busy with dog walkers and families, and Gus was fascinated with the brightly coloured barges lined up along the canal. With quaint names hand-painted on their bows and smoke spiralling from their chimneys, Gus envied the owners’ uncomplicated lives. A few hundred yards along, on a side street opposite the canal, were a series of artists’ workshops, cafés and a bicycle hire and repair shop.

  A busker, playing a guitar, belted out songs in a less than tuneful tone. Attached with strings to his instrument was a moth-eaten papier-mâché doll with mad woman’s hair and clown lipstick. As the musician played, the toy bobbed up and down in a macabre dance. Gus, thinking it resembled something out of a Saw movie, gave the busker and doll a wide berth. Traumatic memories of his sister Katie’s favourite doll, Gemma, staring at him with her googly green eyes had remained with him into adulthood.