by Chris Simms
Iona shrugged. ‘You’d have thought for normal sex-trade stuff, they’d have been made to look … I don’t know … glamorous. Seductive. Those shots seems very plain. More natural.’
O’Dowd tilted his head. ‘Good point. Not sure where it’s going, but good point.’
‘It’s the sort of thing modelling agencies do,’ Iona replied. ‘Test shots for when they’re considering whether to take a girl on.’
As Iona began to jot her own observation down, O’Dowd nodded. ‘I’ll see if our people can confirm if the mark is a piercing. Next up is Aisha.’
Some murmurs broke out before someone spoke from across the table. ‘Christ, Iona.’
She looked up from her notepad at the officer. ‘What?’
Nodding at the screen, he said uneasily, ‘Haven’t got a sister, have you?’
For one crazy moment, she feared it would be Fenella’s face up on the wall. Her eyes cut to the new slide. Of course it wasn’t her, but – oh my God – the officer had been right. The girl was mid-to-late teens, oval-faced, button nose. Even her hair was cut in a similar style to Iona’s collar-length bob. Whereas Iona’s eyes were a striking emerald, the girl’s were a deep and lustrous chestnut. But apart from that …
‘Hard to judge what this one’s ethnicity might be,’ O’Dowd stated.
Iona considered her own: a mix of a Scottish mother and Pakistani father. The resulting skin tone meant people took her nationality to be anything from Spanish to Turkish to Mexican. Iona skimmed the girl’s sheet: she was even five foot three, almost the exact same height. Her eyes continued down to the base of the form. A passport holder.
‘Wasn’t she on the news recently?’ someone else asked.
O’Dowd rested his chin in the crook of his forefinger and thumb. His middle finger began to brush back and forth across his lips. ‘Correct. Can you remember where?’
The officer who’d spoken puffed out his cheeks. ‘Manchester Evening Chronicle website? Did she win something …’
‘She jumped off the flyover which crosses the M60 at Denton. It was six fifty-one in the evening, three days ago. She landed in the fast lane and was run over by at least seven vehicles.’
The silence in the room seemed suddenly more intense. A chair made a tiny creak as someone moved their legs. Iona felt coldness wash across her scalp. She could sense eyes on her. She glanced about, causing at least four colleagues to break off their stares. It was creepy.
‘There’s footage from a motorway camera in the central file, but you don’t need to watch it. Not right now, at least,’ O’Dowd announced. ‘Fortunately, about the first thing the student who purchased the laptop did after leafing through the sheets of paper he found was go online. And the first site he clicked on was the Manchester Evening Chronicle’s: where he saw Aisha’s face looking back at him.’ He scribed a series of semicircles in the air. ‘Four weeks ago, she went missing from council care and was featuring in the “Have You Seen This Person?” panel the Chronicle runs on their site’s homepage.’
He lowered his hand to click on another slide. Another sheet, topped by the words Croydon Social Services. ‘The girl’s real name was Teah Rice, mixed race – mother British, father unknown. The mum’s had another three kids since Teah, all taken into care. The last two as soon as they were born, while the mum was still on the maternity ward. Teah was born in Croydon, south London. Entered the care system aged twelve and was moved to a home just outside Stockport in August. It was assumed she had absconded to head back to her haunts round Croydon. Police down there were keeping an eye out for her. Everyone keeping up so far? Because it’s about to get much, much murkier.’
‘Sir?’
O’Dowd nodded at the officer. It was the one Iona had listened to chatting about his daughter’s laptop before. ‘Why was she up here? Has she got family in these parts?’
‘No. The opposite, in fact. She was moved up here because – thanks to an abundance of cheap, large houses – Stockport is the UK’s number-one choice for care home providers setting up shop. Young people are sent from local authorities all over the country.’
Iona felt herself frown. Stockport was five minutes on the train from Manchester. For kids put into care homes there, what about their existing social networks, their old school or familiar adult faces? She wasn’t the only one to give a sad shake of the head.
O’Dowd sat forward. ‘The purchaser of the laptop – somewhat unsettled, as you would be, by these developments – decides to go back to the person he bought the thing from. He wasn’t quite sure what he was going to ask – considerations which all became irrelevant when he got to the shop the laptop seller had occupied.’ He reached for his keyboard again.
A photograph taken at street level appeared. The bricks above the shop’s main windows were blackened where smoke had billowed out. The flat above it had also been gutted by the fire, judging from the sooty smears trailing away on the wall above window frames that were devoid of glass. The roof had collapsed in at the centre, exposing the charred remains of the rafter at its apex.
‘It’s suspicious,’ O’Dowd stated. ‘The fire investigation officer thinks accelerant was splashed around the ground-floor premises. It’s also a murder scene, since the laptop seller’s body was found on the first-floor landing. This is a bit gruesome.’ He clicked to a new slide. ‘Eamon Heslin – one-time owner of PCs To Go.’
The man’s blackened corpse was arched back, as if he’d died screaming. His hands, bound together at the small of his back, were rigid like claws. The carpet he was lying on was almost completely burned away and the floorboards beneath glistened wetly. Water from the firefighters’ hoses, Iona thought.
‘Despite appearances,’ O’Dowd said, ‘he was probably dead before being incinerated. Muscles and tendons contract with heat, giving that appearance of … well … agony.’
The DCI rested his chin as he’d done before, middle finger flicking up and down. ‘So, we have some profiles suggesting a sex-trafficking ring, but possibly one taking girls from the UK overseas. Teah Rice was in council care. The identities of the other two – the names Shandy and Rihanna will have to do for now – need looking into. Urgently. We have a murdered seller of refurbished laptops.’
‘What was the type of laptop this student purchased?’ asked the officer who’d purchased his own daughter a second-hand model.
O’Dowd consulted his notes. ‘A Dell Latitude, if that means anything to you.’
‘A Latitude? How much did it cost?’
‘Two hundred and seventy-five pounds, with some pirate software, a mouse, keyboard and the leather carry case all thrown in.’
‘For a Dell Latitude?’ the same officer scoffed. ‘I bought my daughter a very basic netbook the other day from one of these internet outfits that sell refurbished gear – and that was three hundred and fifteen pounds with a year’s warranty. Latitudes are top of the range; I’d say it was a knock-off.’
‘It’s now with the Tech department who’re trying to access its hard drive and ascertain where it came from, along with how many other profiles for girls might be stored on it. But I think you’re right: it would suggest our laptop seller took ownership of an item he shouldn’t have. And it would seem the actual owner was very keen to have it back.’
‘Did the shop this Eamon character owned – had it been ransacked?’ The question came from someone sitting behind Iona.
‘The Fire Investigation boys are yet to confirm that. The place was a right shit-heap, apparently. Guts of computers lying everywhere. Shelves full of monitors, crates of gubbins. He built them to order, as well as installing and maintaining systems – plus mending ones with cracked screens and viruses. That sort of stuff.’
He clicked on an interior shot from the shop. It looked like Heslin had a hoarding problem. ‘What didn’t get roasted took a thorough soaking when the firefighters arrived. We’ve sent a team to comb through it, but we don’t expect to recover much evidence from the scene itself.’
Iona half-lifted a hand. ‘Sir, I’m probably missing something obvious here: why is the CTU involved in this? I haven’t seen any terrorist threat so far.’
‘No – you’re absolutely right. The reason why we’re all over this is about to become very clear. Let me bring up the fourth and final profile.’ His hand reached for the keyboard once more.
TWO
Emily Dickinson squinted at the stream of headlights flowing towards her along Oxford Road, hoping for a more substantial pair that would indicate a bus. Wind gusted specks of rain beneath the roof of the shelter and she tried to burrow down more deeply into her duffel coat.
OK, so she knew the weather wasn’t going to be like it was in her home town of Brighton. But the rain up here seemed a near-continual annoyance some weeks. She’d started thinking that, even on dry days, the bloody stuff was there, waiting in the wings for a reappearance.
The duffel coat was the business, though. Far too expensive for her student budget, but what she’d saved through the laptop she’d got off the guy in the student union – what a win! Dad had given her £600 for computer stuff. She’d got a Dell Latitude, all the software she needed and a nice carry case for £300. Even with the £125 she’d spent on the duffel coat, she was still up £175.
She peered across at the brightly glowing lights of the student union building opposite. Dark and wet out here, warm and dry in there … It was tempting to scoot back across and rejoin Anna and Jess in the Union bar. Why not? She smiled. Friday night and that £175 wasn’t going to spend itself.
The few people also beneath the shelter started edging forward. Emily looked to her right. A number 252 was detaching itself from the slow-moving procession, indicator giving a friendly wink. I’m here, the flashes seemed to say. Time to take you home.
It drew up alongside the kerb and they started filing on, passes held up for the driver. To her relief, only a quarter of the seats were taken. She found herself an empty row, slumped into it and hugged her new laptop close. The windows were misted up and she cleared a small port-hole with one elbow, feeling the thrum of the engine quicken as the bus pulled away once more.
It was odd being at uni so far from home. Brighton was a good place: buzzing night-life, the breezy atmosphere you got from seaside towns. Manchester was different. Often, to her, it had a murky, lurky feeling. The people were friendly, on the whole. There were pubs, clubs, bars, cafés, take-away joints, cinemas and cool shops. Much more than in Brighton. But just beyond the glitter and hustle there were sides to the city that made you pause. Or quicken your step. An abandoned house with metal grilles for doors and windows. Narrow alleys choked by wheelie bins. Patches of waste ground enclosed by spiked fences. A bed of flattened cardboard boxes beneath a railway arch. Cobbles showing through crumbling asphalt. She couldn’t quite put a finger on it. If the city were a person, you’d never quite feel you knew him. And it was definitely a him. An outwardly friendly guy with an easy, confident smile. But look closer and you’d see a long-healed scar running across the lips. He was fun to be with, but you could tell he was also a bit of a rascal. And, sometimes, you suspected worse. Much worse.
The bus had got to Wilmslow Road, passing Manchester High School for Girls on the right. Then it was on to Palatine Road and Emily tinged the bell. The vehicle’s speed dropped, and as she made her way to the front, she saw no one else rising from their seat.
‘Cheers!’ she called to the driver, stepping down to the black and shining pavement. The bus trundled off into the night and, after putting her earphones in, she pulled her hood up and started making her way along Leardon Street to her shared house at its far end.
From behind a sprawling buddleia bush a man watched her go by. He saw she was fiddling with an iPod Nano, its distinctive white wire trailing up to the neck of her thick coat. He slipped through the open garden gate, double-checking the occupants of the house had been oblivious to his presence in their front garden. All the curtains were drawn.
The trainers he wore had been chosen for their quietness. Didn’t matter – she wouldn’t be able to hear a thing. He could hear the hiss-thunk of music coming from beneath that great hood. With purposeful steps, he closed the gap. From the jacket of his padded coat he produced a hammer and, the moment he was in striking range, he raised it high then swung it down at her head, both feet momentarily leaving the pavement. It connected with a muffled crunch.
Her legs instantly buckled and she collapsed down and to the side like a tower block being demolished. Her hood had slid half off her head and he could see her eyes were open. He slid the laptop’s strap off her arm. Did she need another? The hammer hovered for a moment. No, she was proper fucked. He continued on, laptop now hanging from his shoulder as the first tendrils of her blood made their tentative way across the cold, wet paving.
THREE
O’Dowd remained silent, giving the entire room plenty of time to study the profile on the wall behind him.
Like everyone else, Iona looked at it in silence. Zara, aged seventeen. A face that was a shade too chubby for a teenager; the kind of skin made pale and pasty by, Iona guessed, a lifetime of cheap, poor-quality food.
She saw kids just like her every day round Manchester. Kids stuffing maxi size bags of crisps and swigging cans of Coke on their way to school. Kids without coats wandering the rainy streets at teatime. Kids clustered just inside the entrance to the Arndale, shrieking at the screen of their mate’s mobile phone. Kids whose parents probably worked long shifts for shit pay and then headed straight for the booze shelves at the nearest supermarket.
The girl’s eyes were still bright, though. And her smile revealed teeth that were white and well aligned. Care home kid? Iona wondered. Who could tell?
The same horrible running order ran beneath her photo. British passport. Eventually O’Dowd cleared his throat. ‘This girl exploded at a border crossing on the Israeli-Lebanese border five days ago.’
A few seconds of stunned silence. Someone somewhere whispered, ‘That’s her?’
‘It is. A few among you may remember the incident being reported; it briefly made the news that day. Her identity, however, remained unknown until yesterday. Make no mistake, ladies and gents, this represents a huge and deeply worrying development. Girls like this – young, white, British, non-Muslim – do not become suicide bombers. They just don’t.
‘For those exact reasons, this girl was able to approach, completely unchallenged, the Israeli position. Soldiers even directed her away from the main crossing point. There are no survivors to verify how she seemed; the blast took out a good chunk of the border building along with four members of the Israeli Defence Force, including a major. Needless to say, there was little left of the girl – whose real name, it turns out, was Jade Cummings.’
Around her, Iona could see officers sitting slack-jawed in their seats. Someone said very quietly, ‘Holy shit.’
O’Dowd drew breath sharply through his nose and sat up straight. ‘OK, that’s your dwell time over. Time to re-engage brains. How do we know this girl’s identity? Serendipity, as they say. An officer with the Greater Manchester Police was returning from a diving holiday in the Red Sea. He saw a paper at Tel Aviv airport that contained a story about the bombing. Included was a photo of the girl’s face.’ O’Dowd grimaced. ‘When these types of bomb go off, it’s not unusual for the upward blast to take the head of the bomber clean off. Often it’s propelled a considerable distance. When the officer returned to work yesterday he happened to be on the team handling the investigation into the murder of Eamon Heslin. He was going through the profile of each girl and – bingo – there’s the mystery bomber he’d seen in the paper at Tel Aviv.’
Someone at the back gave a humourless laugh. ‘Hooray for holidays in the Red Sea Riviera.’
O’Dowd’s expression didn’t lighten. ‘The security services in Israel were contacted immediately; they were able to confirm our photo matched their head. So, our priority is now finding out how Jade Cumm
ings came to be over in Lebanon with a couple of kilos of high explosive strapped to her body. Is there a link to the fact she was in care? Did she have any boyfriends, and if so, what were their ethnicity?’ He flicked to another slide: one with the photos of Shandy and Rihanna side-by-side. ‘We also need to find out what the hell is going on with these two. That will be made much easier if we can work out where this laptop came from. Obviously, Eamon Heslin can’t tell us that and cracking open the hard drive may take time.’
He sat back, interlinked his fingers and surveyed the room. ‘Any reports of muggings, break-ins or thefts from cars, public transport, offices or homes need to be pursued. Not just those where a Dell Latitude was taken – remember, due to the nature of this thing, the person probably won’t have made a report. But an incident may have been rung in by the security staff of an office building that was burgled, someone in a shared house, the attendant in a multi-story car park, British Transport Police if several passengers were robbed on a particular train, the list goes on.
‘If you examine the CCTV footage from when Teah Rice jumped, you can see a female figure trying to coax her back. She leaves the scene when Teah goes over the edge: Good Samaritan or friend? We need her found.’
He brought up another slide, this one with two sets of names. ‘Because of the multiple angles we’ve got to go at, I’m assigning two task forces for this investigation. First will be headed up by DCI Roebuck. It will be his normal team plus Detective Sergeant Everington, who I’ve pulled away from DCI Palmer. I’m giving you the profiles of Rihanna and Shandy – so you’ll be working their identities and trying to establish their current location. Your search will start with Stockport Social Services then go to Manchester’s, then the entire north-west and, if needs be, national. I also need you to cover the issue of where this laptop originally came from. Basically, you’ve got the events leading up to Eamon Heslin’s death.’