by Liz Mistry
Reluctant to open it and look at the contents without having at least some idea of what she’d find, Serafina said, ‘What is it, Sham? What’s inside?’
Sham shook her head and shrugged. Her eyes remained fixed on her hands which lay cupped in her lap. Realising her friend was beyond speaking, Serafina lifted the flap. With a sinking heart, she slipped the contents out until she could cradle them in her hand. They were documents. Open mouthed, she stared at the top one, then using her index finger, she flicked through the rest of them. When she’d finished, she sat in silence. Then, not quite believing what she held in her hand, she repeated the process, before saying, ‘What the heck does this mean, Sham?’
Sham laughed a mirthless laugh. ‘I think it means my sister has a lot of explaining to do, don’t you?’
Wednesday
Chapter 44
01:15 Ingleby Road to Dudley Hill, Bradford
It doesn’t take long to find another vehicle to swap plates with. The Mother Hubbard’s car park on Ingleby Road is busy. A quick drive around shows a marked absence of cameras. When I see the old bloke head inside the building, clutching his car keys and wallet, I pull in behind him. He’s perfect. Doddery old fool probably wouldn’t notice if I spray-painted his car fluorescent pink. My heart beats faster as I sneak from my vehicle and glance around. It’s dark enough to hide what I’m doing, and nobody’s looking in my direction. I slip on my gloves, and two minutes later, the plates are swapped. I check that the mud obscuring my front number plate is still there, and then, I’m sorted.
Humming to myself, I head to Caroline Drive and park up outside his house. Now, all I have to do is wait. If he doesn’t go for a ride tonight, I’ll get him next time. After all, patience is one of my many virtues. Doesn’t matter to me how long I have to wait; the end result will be the same.
My fingers tap along to Heart FM, and despite the cold, I feel warmth suffuse my body. It’s been a tiring day full of emotion and excitement, but I am ready now. The successes of the protest in City Park have buoyed me up. The interviews were inspired, and our cause is now very firmly in the public arena.
The hallway light goes on in his house. Is this it? Is he leaving for one of his illicit little assignations, or is he locking up for the night? I lean forward, hugging the steering wheel, and peer through the dark. Then, I see the porch light flick on, and a chink of yellow hits the steps. He is coming out. He glances at the house, probably checking to see if the bedroom lights are still off. Poor cow is probably sound asleep. Getting into his car, he backs from the driveway. I follow, not putting on my lights until I join the main street after him. As I expected, he heads straight to Thornton Road. I know exactly what he’s doing there. Dirty pig! I follow, keeping my distance, as he takes a circular route driving up Tetley Street, along Sunbridge Road and back down Lower Grattan Road. He drives this route twice before pulling into the kerb on Tetley Street.
A skeletal figure darts from the shadows of the deserted buildings and makes a beeline for his car. She passes under a street light, and I see her in all her sad glory; she looks about eighteen going on fifty. For a mere second, I pity her, wonder what tragedy has driven her to this … servicing the likes of him in a stinking alley for a few quid and the chance of catching something terminal. I shudder. They’ve got so much to answer for, that lot.
As I drive past, she skips around to the passenger side. For all her scrawniness, I notice the gentle curve of her belly. Her pregnant state makes what she’s about to do even more distasteful, and for a second, I consider intervening now. Right this minute. If I acted straight away, I could save her this indignity. Then, I come to my senses. For the greater good, I would wait … that’s the right thing to do. I mustn’t let myself be distracted.
She climbs in beside him, and he continues his circuit ending up in a disused car park off Sunbridge Road. I slide to a halt in the street opposite the car park and see the glimmer of his tail lights as he pulls up in the farthest away corner and brakes. For a moment, the glare of his headlights reflects back off the building edging the area, then they’re doused. In the half-light, I can see only the outline of his vehicle, but I don’t need a spotlight to know what’s going on inside. I wait until the girl gets out. She wipes her mouth and pockets her cash before slipping through the still night, down a side street and, presumably, back to her ‘spot.’ As soon as she’s out of sight, I make my move. Sliding into gear, I edge forward, the engine barely purring as I drive between the dilapidated gates.
It’s ridiculously easy, really. When I’m lined up, I accelerate and flick my lights on full blast. Blinding him, brakes squealing, I ram his BMW with my old van. His lumbering frame half stumbles out of the vehicle. Still blinded by the harsh gleam, he approaches, hands splayed before him. I’m more agile than him, so I jump out quickly. The increased tempo of my heart seems to buoy me up. Its rhythm matching my staccato movements, thurrump, thurrump, thurrump. I’ve done this before. I know my routine by now. I get out of the van, taking care to flick the switch on the extra strong lantern I wear round my head. He can’t see a thing. I move fast. The syringe is ready prepped in my hand, and in it goes, smooth and easy. He doesn’t have a chance to react as he slides to the muck.
I pull his legs together, smirking at the mud that spatters his trousers. He is one big bloke. I get the trolley from the van. No need to be gentle, so I force the metal scoop under his buttocks and lay the trolley flat. He’s heavier than I’d anticipated, but finally I manage to drag him on. The first time, with Asim Farooq, I’d immobilised him straight away with the cable ties. That had been a disaster. He’d been hard to manoeuvre with his hands and feet tied together. With Manish Parmar, I’d adapted my technique. Instead, I’d got him onto the trolley first before putting on the cable ties and that worked better.
Pulling his feet together at the ankles, I pull the tie tight, until it cuts right in, his socks bulging out over the top. I tie a rope round his middle to hold him in place, and then, I raise the trolley. Soon as I’ve done that, I drag his arms behind the trolley, and using another tie, I bind them together attaching them to one of the metal cross bars. It’s taken a matter of a few minutes. That’s all. I look around, but I’m fairly sure the activity has gone undetected. Who would want to be in this area in the middle of the night?
I lower the ramp at the back of my van before wheeling the trolley over, and once it’s in place, I raise it up and in. The beauty of my trusty trolley is it lies perfectly flat … for what I’m going to do, I need a flat surface. For a second, I study the inert body in the back of my van, and as my heart rate slows, a slow smile lifts my lips. Humming to myself, I slam the door shut, and after a quick glance to make sure I’ve left nothing behind, I climb into the driver’s seat and head off.
Chapter 45
02:15 Marriners Drive
Gus accepted the excess of coffee he was pumping into his body wouldn’t help. It was either that or crack open a bottle of whisky, and that would definitely not bode well for a productive day. The facts of the cases kept churning around and around in his mind. He felt Graeme Weston was guilty of something, but he didn’t know what. He sensed Michael Hogg knew something, but, likewise, he wasn’t telling. He knew, without doubt, Christine Weston had secrets she wanted to share but was too scared. Whether any of that was related to his serial killer was the big question.
When he’d checked in with Compo, his programme was still running the data. Nancy’s press conference earlier had initiated a few leads that the uniformed officers were following up on. Now, the City Park bomb had put the serial killer momentarily on a back burner ... at least until he struck again. It was this last thought that worried Gus. Everything pointed to the fact the killer would act again soon. He clearly had a racist agenda, and that was being fuelled by the day’s events. According to Professor Carlton, whether or not the Tattoo Killer was directly involved in Albion First, their actions were a tacit green light for him to continue. Gus hoped he wasn’t ‘co
ntinuing’ whilst he sat in the comfort of his living room, over-dosing on caffeine.
He hit the dimmer switch, rested his head on the back of his sofa and looked at the portrait of Bob Marley painted by his best friend Greg … the friend he’d been forced to kill. He sighed.
‘What do you reckon, Bob? What else should I be doing?’
For the third time since he’d arrived home that evening, Gus peeled his sleeve back to reveal the tattoo on his upper arm. It was still raw and crusty, but the shape was well defined. He compared it to the larger painting on the wall and grinned. He was happy with it, and Mo, bless him, hadn’t told anyone he’d nearly fainted … well, not so far, anyway. It had been sore but not unbearable. It wasn’t the pain that had got to him; it was the sight of the needle moving so fast and the sound, and the little pinpricks of blood Emily kept wiping away with a tissue. He was pleased he’d done it, but he definitely wouldn’t be having another one applied anytime soon. Getting out his tube of Bepanthen, he applied it to the tattoo. Its coolness felt soothing against the warmth of his skin. He exhaled, knowing their sadist tattooist wouldn’t think twice about aftercare or being gentle. He shuddered at the thought of the pain he’d gone through for his paltry little tatt, magnified a hundredfold. It didn’t bear thinking about. What kind of person did that sort of thing?
Chapter 46
03:30 The Kill Site
Through the shadows of the trees and bushes, lit only by moonlight, the slight swish of Tara’s tail tells me she is waiting for my signal to tell her it’s safe. I open the van window. Whistling in a low tone, I imagine her trembling body calming, her ears falling back and her nostrils quivering in the night air, searching for my familiar scent in the breeze. I sense, rather than hear, the bushes rustle, as her magnificent splendour moves towards me. She’ll be anticipating the treat I always carry for her in my pocket. I smile and draw to a halt near the old barn. The van is out of sight of the track. Not that anyone would be about at nearly four in the morning.
I jump out, and Tara comes right up to me, her nose butting against my back, her teeth nibbling my pocket trying to tease out the sweet treat. Her breath is warm against my hand as I give in and take the cube from my pocket before offering it to her, in my palm. She inhales it without pausing, and then, looking at me, she demands to be stroked. Running my gloved fingers through her thick mane, she puffs her pleasure against my cheek, nuzzling my neck. For minutes, we stay like that … as one. Savouring each other’s company. Until I pat her rump lightly, whisper promises to return later and send her back to her shelter in the copse of trees. Tara is the only witness to my dark deeds, and, lucky for me, she can’t tell a soul.
Readying myself for the next stage, I take the syringe in my hand and swing open the doors. A dull light illuminates the man still secured to the trolley. Hmm, something is different … no movement. Usually by now, they are starting to come around. I release the hydraulic step and climb in, wary in case he is trying to trick me. Syringe poised, I creep closer and prod him. No reaction. I move closer, and then, I see his dark eyes staring up at me. Mocking me! Whoever said the eyes were windows to the soul was quite right. They are. I look right into his eyes, and all I see in their emptiness is darkness and perversion.
I cradle my head in my hands, my fingers raking my hair, and sob. Tears wash down my face, and stabs of anger course through my body until finally, with only Tara’s anxious whinnies to soothe me, I drive my fist into his face. Then again … and again … and again until those evil eyes are no longer mocking me. He might have escaped the pain, but I am damned if he escapes my message. I take out the tattoo kit, and there, in the silent night, I brand him with the symbol of purity.
Chapter 47
08:00 Bradford Chronicle Offices, Hall Ings, Bradford
Nursing the worst hangover of all time, Jez Hopkins slouched into the offices wearing the same clothes he’d worn the previous day. A large Starbucks latte with extra sugar in one hand and with his bag over the opposite shoulder, he stumbled towards his desk. Ignoring the knowing looks and sarky comments from his colleagues, he eased himself onto his chair. Taking care not to jolt his head too much, he closed his eyes and waited for his world to settle, before taking a tentative sip of his drink. Satisfied his stomach could handle it, he took another longer sip, and feeling the caffeine course through his alcohol suffused veins, he opened one eye. Ouch! Too bright! He closed it again and leaned back in his chair groaning.
‘Anyone got some co-codamol?’ he said, whispering on account of his headache. He heard a rustling from the desk behind him and half-smiled. Angie always had painkillers, thank God! He heard her swishing towards him, her heels clacking just a little too loudly on the linoleum floor. ‘Fuck’s sake, Prentiss, keep it down!’
He was rewarded with a slap to the back of the head which made him wince, followed by the sound of the painkillers being slammed down on the desk in front of him, then the words, ‘You stink like a bloody brewery. Couldn’t you at least have showered before you came in?’
Ignoring her, Jez focussed his attention on his dizziness as a wave of nausea drifted over him. Not for the first time, he thought he may have to use the metal bin next to his desk, for there was no chance of him negotiating a path to the men’s loos in time. At last, it passed. Unwilling to risk a reoccurrence, he put out his hand without moving his head or opening his eyes and groped around for the pills. There they were. Lifting them, he transported them to his mouth, and with the minimum of head movement, he downed a couple with a swig of coffee. At the same time, he vowed never to touch another drop of alcohol again in his life.
Settling back into his chair, with tentative movements, he swung his legs up and rested his feet on his desk. He’d deserved to celebrate last night. He’d had a few action-packed days of top stories, rounded off by the bonus of being the only reporter on hand when the bottle-bomb had been released into the crowd in City Park. And, of course, he’d risen to the occasion like the professional he was. Not only had he snagged a radio interview with Graeme Weston, but because the Calendar crew couldn’t get in quickly enough, he’d managed to snare a TV one too. He smiled. It had been repeated ad infinitum all night; his face plastered all over the country asking insightful questions of Bradford’s newest and most controversial politician. He’d been in his element, and he hadn’t let Weston off lightly. Oh, no! He’d made sure to cast doubt on Albion First’s claims the protestors had hurled the missile.
He sighed. One day of rest after all his recent achievements wasn’t too much to ask, was it? After all, he was sitting on some pretty darn good career prospects right now, and the big bosses had better take note or their golden boy might head down south or, at the very least, to North Yorkshire. He was in a prime position to out-manoeuvre his opponents and cut a once-in-a-lifetime deal.
Half an hour and a snore-filled snooze later, he was interrupted by the arrival of the post. Groaning, he accepted his pile which looked like the usual junk: invitations to boring gallery openings and previews of this or that boring amateur production. Nothing that couldn’t wait until he got his head straight.
He was about to toss the lot on top of the existing piles of junk mail on his desk when he saw it. A brown sealed envelope, marked in crabby small writing in ballpoint, ‘For the Urgent Attention of Jez Hopkins.’ There was no postmark, so it had clearly been hand-delivered. He turned it over in his hands again, and then, decision made, he ripped it open, spilling the contents over his desk. ‘Whoa!’
For a second, he was immobilised. What he was seeing didn’t register at first. Then, realising the implication of this delivery, he swept everything back into the envelope. With a quick glance around the room to make sure none of his nosy neighbours had eyeballed it, he stood up. Hangover gone in an instant, he grabbed his bag and tossed his Starbucks cup into the bin. ‘Working from home for the rest of the day, Prentiss!’ Shouting over his shoulder, he exited the building, ignoring his colleagues’ cat calls and jeers brandin
g him a ‘lightweight’ and suchlike.
Sod them! What he had in that envelope was a passport to the big time. A way out of Bradford with a wad of cash in his back pocket and the bright lights in sight. This was bigger than North Yorkshire. This was his ticket to the tabloids.
Chapter 48
08:00 The Fort
‘Right all, listen up! Here are the actions for today. Compo, how’s your programme doing?’
‘Getting there, Gus, maybe by lunchtime?’
‘Ok. Taffy, Sampson, follow up on interviews with the victims’ friends. Also, Imtiaz Khan is coming in today. He’s going to go through footage of yesterday’s City Park protest to see if he can identify the man he saw throwing the bomb. If he does, put the face through our facial recognition programme. Imti thinks he’s one of Weston’s thugs, so we should have him in our records.’
He turned to Alice. ‘I want you to focus on identifying and alibiing any known right-wingers with a penchant for violence. This afternoon, you and I are going to visit the premises identified by Compo as being within our parameters as kill sites. Nancy is going to put out another appeal to the public, reiterating our request for information in anyone expressing recent interest in tattooing techniques, and warning the targeted group, young Asian men, to be ultra-vigilant.’
Alice stood up. ‘The forensics are in, Gus. Looks like our tattooist is using Propofol to knock the victims out.’ She clicked through the reports on her computer screen, ‘Yep, Asim Farooq’s tests show Propofol levels at 2.4μg/mL, Manish Parmar’s were at 1.4 μg/mL and Razaul Ul Haq’s at 2.3μg/mL/.’