DARK MURDER a gripping detective thriller full of suspense

by Helen H. Durrant

  “And what if Kashif needs me for something?” Tanweer bleated.

  “He doesn’t own you — tell him you’re busy.” Daz shrugged.

  “Can’t you earn a crust some other way, bro? Geegee isn’t good for you, he isn’t good for anybody. The man’s toxic.”

  “There’s nowt out there, Tan. You haven’t got a clue. Kashif keeps you sorted moneywise. Stace’ll kill me if I don’t get some dosh soon. She’s said she’ll throw me out if I don’t bring home my share of what we need.”

  “She’s someone else you shouldn’t have got mixed up with. I told you at the time, but you don’t listen, do you, bro? Now look where you’ve ended up.”

  “She was fucking pregnant, man. Her brothers were turning the screws. You could help me if you weren’t so scared of Kashif. You could ask your uncle Naz if he’ll take me on. His shops are open all the time and he’s always looking for people.”

  Tan looked doubtful. “I’ll try. I’ll speak to him later, if Kashif leaves me alone.”

  “Try your best, mate. I need something quick, rent’s due again. D’you think Naz’ll bother, you know, about my record and stuff?”

  “Don’t tell him, bro, just don’t tell him.”

  Darren Hopper thought about this for a second or two as he rocked on his heels. A job with Naz could be good, and Tan was right — what the old man didn’t know, well, couldn’t hurt, could it? Anyway, he hadn’t really spent time inside, not properly. He’d been in a young offenders’ unit and that didn’t count. You were allowed a few mistakes, surely, growing up.

  “What you up to now?” Tan asked, suddenly engrossed with his mobile phone.

  “Nowt. I’ve been down the jobcentre but that’s a waste of time. Now they want me to join some job club. They want me in every day and if I refuse . . .” He shrugged. “The bastards say they’ll stop my benefit.”

  “Got a text off Kashif, he wants me to go with him, he’s got stuff to do,” Tan told his friend. “Not a word about Geegee or he’ll have my guts.”

  At that moment an overweight Asian man with a full beard lumbered through the mosque door towards them.

  “Tanweer. With me,” he barked, giving Darren a filthy look. “What have I told you about hanging around with him? You’ve got work to do.”

  “Lucky sod,” Daz muttered. He didn’t like Tan’s older brother and the feeling was mutual. Kashif was odd, secretive, and then there were the rumours. People didn’t trust him, said he was a radical, an extremist and that he spent far too much time stirring up the local Asian youth. He’d taken a bunch of them to London not so long ago, to a huge rally in Hyde Park. God knows what for — some protest about injustice in some place Daz had never heard of.

  “He is a very lucky boy, but does he appreciate what his family does for him?” He clapped Tan on the back. “No, he most certainly does not. Instead he does stupid things like hanging around street corners with the likes of you,” Kashif Hussain said, poking Darren in the chest. “So why don’t you go home to that woman of yours and leave Tanweer alone?”

  “We’ve been hanging out since school,” Daz protested. “You’ve never been bothered before.” Then he took a step back. Kashif’s eyes were wild, glittering with something Daz didn’t like. There was a lot of hate in the man.

  “Well, I’m bothered now,” he growled. “You got no job to go to?”

  “Not yet, but I’m looking,” Daz replied.

  “Then go down the Job Centre and look there. You’re not going to find anything lurking on street corners with this idle lump, are you? Unless it’s trouble you want, eh, Darren?”

  “Just want to make some money, Kashif, that’s all. No crime is it, wanting to feed your family? Tan said he’d have a word with your uncle for me.”

  “You’d do better to look somewhere else. Naz can’t help.” Kashif glowered at Tan.

  “He’s got something on this week, haven’t you Daz?” Tanweer said, “so you see, he does try. It wouldn’t do any harm to ask Uncle Naz, and you need drivers, you said so this morning.”

  Kashif shot his brother a look that was positively murderous. “Stupid fool,” he rasped in his face. “That’s family business. I’ve warned you about that slack mouth of yours. It’ll get you into real trouble one of these days.”

  “But Daz is okay, he really is, and he can be trusted. Besides, like he says, he needs the money and he’s not particular.”

  Daz might not like Kashif but he was curious about the man. He knew, as did most of Oldston, that Tan’s family ran a racket in imported cigarettes as well as drugs. His drivers visited the docks in Liverpool or Hull on a regular basis. They’d pick up the stuff and then distribute it among dozens of shops run by family or friends. A very lucrative sideline, guessed Darren, and he would love to be in on the action.

  “You talking about the ciggy run, Tan?” He smiled, nodding at Kashif with a look that said he knew all about it.

  “What if he is?” Kashif sighed. “The young fool isn’t involved, and you’d do well to keep that stupid mouth of yours shut.” His face and those evil eyes loomed, only centimetres from Daz’s. “You’ve no idea what catastrophes can befall someone who falls foul of our operation,” he said. “So keep your nose out and don’t concern yourself with our business. Do you understand?”

  What Darren understood was that he had yet another dodgy bastard threatening him with God knows what. But it still didn’t stop him from wanting in. “I’m the soul of discretion. Believe me, I can be trusted. I need to earn some money and I’m not too bothered what I have to do to get it.”

  Straight down the line. There was no way Kashif could misinterpret what he wanted now — Darren Hopper really did want in.

  Daz waited while Kashif Hussain considered this. He was quiet for a few seconds before finally shaking his head decisively.

  “No — no way. This is family business, family only, you understand?” Kashif said, giving Darren an evil smile. “So there is no place for a toerag like you.”

  * * *

  “Do we say anything to her husband, sir?” Quickenden asked, after they’d let Reader go.

  “Not yet. We need proof to back up what he’s just told us. Once we get the DNA results on the foetus, then we’ll see.”

  “So what now?”

  “The Duggan Centre,” Greco decided. “I want to know what the PM has thrown up.”

  “Do you want me to come?”

  Quickenden really shouldn’t have had to ask that.

  “Better things to do, Sergeant?”

  “I thought I’d pop round to the Spinners, see who’s selling what and see if anyone wants to talk to me.”

  “I think that’s very unlikely.” Greco sighed. “Your time would be better spent dealing with the case in hand.”

  “I’m not sure if you know, but the Spinners is close to the canal. It’s only a few hundred yards from where the body was found. Who knows what was seen, and folk are more likely to talk to me.”

  He could have something there. Greco was sick of constantly having to be on Quickenden’s back. “But don’t think you can swan off and do your own thing. I will expect a short report on your findings in the morning. So don’t use your visit as an excuse to get bladdered again. If you come in late tomorrow morning, or smelling of booze, then you’re out. Do you understand?”

  He watched his sergeant squirm.

  “I thought it might help, sir. If there’s any talk, then I’ll hear it. The place is a focal point for all the scroats in this town.”

  Greco wondered what that made Quickenden. He returned to the main office. It was empty. Grace Harper had left a note on his desk explaining her absence. It was written on a scrappy bit of paper and had been left under his stapler, and this fact bothered him more than what it said.

  They had a difficult case on their hands and his team were all lightweights. He had expected more from Quickenden. The DCI had told him that the sergeant was on a final warning. He needed to sharpen up his act an
d fast.

  Grace Harper was more difficult to deal with. If it was possible to sweep away all the family stuff, then she did have the makings of a good detective. They bothered him: Quickenden, Grace and to a certain extent Craig Merrick too.

  As he rearranged the items on the desktop, lining everything up an exact distance apart, he knew he was in trouble again. His obsession with neatness and cleanliness, if left unchecked, could take over his life and leave him precious little time for anything else. He resolved to register with a local GP and get some help.

  He looked up at the clock: six thirty. Craig Merrick entered the office with a pile of files under his arm.

  “Thought I catch up with this little lot while it was quiet,” he explained.

  “Don’t apologise to me for working hard, but if that’s all getting a bit boring, perhaps you fancy a trip to the Duggan Centre?”

  Merrick looked up and nodded.

  “You drive and then you can drop me off at home when we’ve finished.”

  “Earlier I was looking at the last calls made to and from Brenda Hirst’s phone,” he told the DI. “She got a call, sir, from an unknown user. It’s the last one logged. She spoke to someone for about three minutes.”

  “Can we find out who it was?”

  “Probably, but I don’t have the right access to what I need, to do that.

  “In that case it needs to go to the Duggan. It could be an important break. Good work.”

  “Have I got time to grab a sandwich before we leave, sir?”

  “Okay — about fifteen minutes,” Greco told him.

  The DI took the Donnelly file from his desk.

  “I’ve got another one for you,” said DCI Green, coming into the office. “Central has passed me the tobacco scam information. Thought I’d let you have a look, and if the murder investigation starts to drag, then you could consider giving it some time.”

  “It’s still early days — the investigation has a way to go.”

  “And it needs the entire team?”

  Greco nodded back.

  “I know it’s not what you want to hear but watch the budget — overtime particularly. Pathology and forensic science are bound to cost more now that it’s moved to the new facility.”

  “DC Merrick and I are off there now, sir. We need to know what the PM has thrown up, if anything. I’ve met Doctor Barrington but who’ve they put at the helm for forensic science?”

  “Doctor Julian Batho,” he replied, “Professor Batho now, since the move.

  “I’ve met him. He’s good, but the post of professor?”

  “The department at the cottage hospital in Leesdon closed. Doctor Hoyle semi-retired, Batho decided to leave, applied to the Duggan and got a giant leg-up. Is he someone we can work with?”

  “I met him when I was involved with a case in Leesdon. I found him quite . . . challenging. He doesn’t give much away. He’s difficult to read.”

  Greco watched the DCI smile. He knew what he’d be thinking — pot, kettle, black and all that.

  “How are you getting on with the team, Stephen?” he asked, before Greco could add anything else.

  Now they were getting to it.

  “It’s going to be hard work, sir. I hope they’ve got it in them to become a good bunch, but at present it’s touch and go.” It was no use pretending. The team was a mess, and it wasn’t his fault, it was a mess he’d inherited. “Quickenden is the worst; DC Harper could do with bucking her ideas up, and Craig Merrick needs to prove he’s back on the job. I read the report. I’m surprised he wasn’t sacked. He was mixed up with a known criminal. Had there been any proof that he’d taken a bribe then that would have been it.”

  “There was none, not that could be found anyway, so go easy,” Green suggested. “He’s young and got in too deep. His rationale was to infiltrate a group of thugs running the take-away on Link Road, but he came unstuck. In my opinion, for what it’s worth, I think they set him up. They spun him a load of lies and Merrick fell for it.”

  “He’s a detective, he should know better. That isn’t how we get things done.” He shook his head. “Quickenden’s another one. He’s gone off early to spend time in that dive of a pub — the Spinners. He reckons he can get a lead on the tobacco scam and the murder by talking to folk in there. But they won’t give anything away, not to a cop.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Stephen,” Green said. “Merrick, no — but Quickenden is one of them, well, was one of them before he saw the light. He grew up around here, they know him. He’s the archetypal bad boy made good.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion, sir. He’s still got a lot to learn.”

  “Try and go easy. They worked for Leighton, your predecessor, for a while and they liked him. I want you all to get along. I know Quickenden’s history isn’t good but, given a chance, DC Harper does try hard. If you are to succeed you need their goodwill and support. You’re their DI but even you can’t operate alone,” he warned. “You are okay here, aren’t you? Not regretting the move?”

  “I’m not here out of choice if that’s what you mean,” Greco admitted. “It’s where I need to be because of my daughter. I made that clear at the interview. But things are smoother now. Me and Suzy have a routine that works and Matilda has settled down fine. As for the job I’ve no complaints — crime’s crime anywhere. It suits me to be busy and there’s work here in abundance.”

  Green shook his head. “Too much bloody work if you ask me. Take my advice, get yourself a life outside of this place. You can’t put work above everything else, Stephen. It does no one any good and your team need you to be on top form.”

  “Pep talk over, sir.” He’d had enough. He had things to do.

  “When we’re talking privately, call me Colin.” The DCI smiled. “This yes sir, no sir stuff has its place but I’d like us to get on aside from that.”

  Greco nodded. Well, if that’s what he wanted. The others in his team all used first names and even nicknames: Quickenden was Speedy and he’d heard Georgina called George on more than one occasion. It wasn’t something he was comfortable with but on reflection it was a habit he too was falling into. He’d see how things went.

  Chapter 7

  The Duggan Centre was a purpose built pathology and forensic science lab on the business park along the Manchester bypass. It offered its diverse facilities far and wide. All the CID in the surrounding areas used it, as the move for centralisation gained momentum. It specialised in DNA analysis and was pioneering the newest techniques.

  “Doctor Barrington,” Greco said to the woman on reception, as he and Merrick showed their IDs.

  She rang through to the labs, then pointed down the corridor. “Doctor Barrington is in post-mortem room three,” she told them.

  “Attended many of these?” he asked Merrick as they went.

  The DC shook his head and shivered. “Hate them — I’ve only ever seen two done and they scared the sh . . . well, they scared me.”

  “I’m not too keen myself,” Greco replied. “It’s not the dead, so much as all the emotion that goes with the loss.”

  Merrick shot him a look and Greco smiled back. “Didn’t have me down as being into empathy, did you? I’m not a heartless man, Constable, but it’s better for your own sanity if you can maintain a certain detachment.”

  “Inspector Greco!” The pathologist greeted them as they entered the room.

  In this environment Natasha Barrington looked completely different — lack of white coverall, Greco decided. She was younger than he’d thought earlier, mid-thirties. She had a pretty face with a smattering of freckles. The hair he’d thought was dark was actually a deep shade of auburn bobbing on her shoulders. His daughter, Matilda, had freckles. He smiled at the thought.

  “You’re leaving?” She had her coat on and was busy organising the contents of her briefcase.

  “You policemen, never know when to call it a day. Some of us have a life, Inspector. I recommend it, keeps you sane.”
>
  “The body from this morning — I have a few questions.”

  She went to her computer and brought up a file. “Brenda Hirst. It’s as I thought: blow to the head with something wooden, no sharp edges but with a force hard enough to leave splinters in the wound. Under the microscope we could see that some of the splinters had a smooth edge on one side.”

  “A baseball bat,” Merrick suggested.

  “That would do it, that or something similar, and wielded by someone strong because it had force behind it. Her skull was shattered so badly that a sliver of bone entered the Medulla Oblongata. Death would have been instant. But not content with that, your killer then stamped on her head leaving the boot imprint we saw this morning.”

  “Was she pregnant?” Greco asked.

  “Yes, I was just coming to that, about three months. I’ll print the report out for you,” she said.

  “Was there any evidence of sexual assault prior to her death?”

  “No, I found nothing untoward.”

  “Would you arrange for the DNA of the foetus to be matched against this?” He handed her the saliva sample taken from Reader.

  “Professor Batho will do that for you. I believe he has one or two other things he’d like to discuss.”

  “Is he still here?”

  Natasha Barrington rolled her eyes and grinned. “Unlike me he practically lives here. This job is obviously what the man was waiting for.” She picked up the phone and tapped in an extension number. “But not tonight, it seems. I’m afraid he must have gone.”

  “I’ll ring him tomorrow.”

  “You’re not from this area, are you?” She smiled, handing him the printed Brenda Hirst file. “It’s the accent.”

  “I transferred from East Anglia — a personal matter.” He didn’t want to elaborate. It was his private life and that wasn’t for discussing with strangers, no matter how attractive. Apart from which, Merrick had large ears and would no doubt relate anything he said back to the team.

  “Must be very different from what you were used to. Life’s harder up here, well, it is in Oldston. Substance abuse is a major killer. You’d be surprised how much death we see due to drugs and drink.”