‘No criminal record, no arrests or trials pending,’ she continued.
‘Can we try the NHS, see if he’s got a patient number?’
‘Well, we can try …’
Rosemary tapped some keys and the computer whirred contentedly, before bleeping loudly at them.
‘Nothing I’m afraid …’
‘Inland Revenue?’ Helen said, but it was without conviction and she wasn’t surprised when this too came up blank.
Thanking Rosemary, Helen called time on their search shortly afterwards, aware that she was holding up other officers with more pressing needs. She did this with good grace – she was here in her own time after all and Rosemary was doing her a favour – but Helen still felt bitterly frustrated as she walked out of the building towards the bike park. Somebody had wanted her to find out who this young man was, had perhaps taken a risk in order to help her do so and she had failed them.
She was still lost in thought – speculating about what might be going on at Manor Farm – when a noise behind her made her turn. To her surprise, Rosemary was running down the steps towards her. This was not something you saw every day.
‘Why do you have to walk so fast?’ she puffed, catching her breath. ‘This just came through.’
She handed Helen a fax. The latter’s eye was immediately drawn to the Home Office logo at the top.
‘I always run these things past the immigration guys, usually more in hope than expectation.’
Helen was already scanning the details, hungry for information.
‘Anyway, it seems your man is a Rwandan national. He filed two asylum applications in the last eighteen months. Both of which were turned down. Something to be getting on with anyway.’
Rosemary smiled, awaiting Helen’s thanks, but the latter’s mind was already turning. Had their victim chosen to take an illegal route into the country, to escape the rising tide of violence in his country? If so, who had he turned to? And how had he got here?
13
There was a message waiting for Helen when she arrived back at base. It was from Jim Grieves, asking her to return to the mortuary at her earliest convenience. Helen was due to start work shortly – her shift started in less than two hours – but even so she didn’t hesitate, biking across town as fast as she could.
‘Nice to see you again, WPC Grace.’
There was a definite twinkle this time. Jim Grieves seemed intrigued, even a little amused, by her. Helen suspected he had come across his fair share of over-excited rookies in his time.
‘I’ve done the PM on our victim now,’ Grieves continued, ‘and before I send it down the line, I thought you might want to take a look at it.’
He handed a slim folder to Helen, who opened it eagerly.
‘I’m afraid he was in poor health, even before he sustained his injuries. We opened him up and his lungs were in very bad shape. Advanced stages of tuberculosis.’
Helen took this in, wincing slightly at the thought.
‘It hadn’t been treated and the poor guy must have been coughing his lungs up. He was living on borrowed time, even before his injuries, all of which I’ve detailed in the report. The torture marks – if that’s what they are – were all sustained recently, in the last three to six months …’
Grieves paused, but Helen continued to flick through the pages of his report.
‘Anything else?’ Helen enquired, trying her best not to sound disappointed.
‘There was nothing in his stomach, nothing that might place him a little better … but I did find something unusual under his fingernails.’
Helen looked up – there was that that twinkle again. Grieves had been building to this and paused slightly, before eventually delivering the punchline.
‘Turkey faeces.’
14
Helen’s stomach tightened with every step she took. Part of her wanted to turn and run, but she knew she had to press on. So summoning her courage, she walked to the end of the corridor and knocked on the closed door.
The CID unit was based at the Central Police Station in Southampton’s civic centre. It was a far cry from the HTP offices in Totton and the slight sneer on the face of the Inspector’s assistant as she took in Helen’s biker’s uniform reflected this. Helen wasn’t in the mood for condescension, however, so she cut to the chase.
‘Detective Inspector Whittaker, please.’
‘Now what brings you all the way down here, Constable?’
Whittaker barely looked up as he spoke, his attention glued to a case file in front of him. He was tall, charismatic and handsome, the poster boy for Southampton CID. His natural advantages were backed up by considerable investigative talents – he already had several important collars under his belt and was tipped to go far. He was well above Helen’s pay grade – on every level – which is why she felt such a fraud standing in front of him now.
‘I believe I have evidence of a serious crime, sir.’
‘Go on,’ Whittaker replied, his eyes still glued to his file.
‘We had an RTA fatality yesterday. A young African man. I believe he’s an illegal immigrant who may have been chased to his death by criminal elements.’
‘Chased?’ Whittaker queried, finally raising his gaze to meet hers.
‘With dogs …. they set dogs on him. He had a fresh bite mark on his ankle, the soles of his feet were lacerated … I think he was chased through the forest and onto the road.’
‘From where?’
‘A nearby poultry farm. The owner employs African workers there during the Christmas period. Our RTA victim had turkey faeces under his fingernails –’
‘Turkey faeces?!’
‘Yup,’ Helen confirmed quickly, painfully aware of how foolish it sounded. ‘The farm’s the only sizeable dwelling near the accident site and the coincidence struck me –’
‘And can I ask how you know all this?’ Whittaker interrupted firmly.
For the first time Helen paused. She knew this was where her trouble would begin, but it was too late to back out now.
‘I asked Jim Grieves to do a post mortem on the body for me.’
‘Did you now?’
Helen nodded, unsure how else to respond.
‘And he agreed?’ Whittaker continued, his astonishment clear.
‘Yes, sir. He felt the incident was worthy of further investigation.’
Whittaker sat back in his chair, taking her in properly for the first time.
‘And you didn’t go to your boss because …’
‘Not really our line of work,’ Helen confessed, aware of how exposing this admission was.
Whittaker stared at her for a while, then said: ‘Well, seeing as you’ve come all this way, why don’t you sit down and tell me a little more about it?’
Helen did as she was asked, quickly filling Whittaker in on the details. He sat silently, taking in what she said, occasionally raising an eyebrow at Helen’s more cavalier actions. Eventually she finished and sat back in her chair. She looked at Whittaker in silence, hopeful but nervous of his response.
‘Well, it seems you’ve got enough evidence to warrant further investigation,’ he concluded after a pause, to Helen’s relief. ‘Though I don’t entirely approve of the manner in which you came by it. Cavalier policing leads to criminals slipping off the hook, WPC Grace.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So I’m going to suggest you let us take a quick look at this. You’ve done more than enough for now and unless I’m very much mistaken … you’re late for your shift.’
15
‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’
As predicted, Helen was late for work. Her boss had demanded an explanation and as there was no point lying, Helen had confessed all, sugaring the pill as best she could. She had hoped that Whittaker’s interest in the case might mitigate her actions in Sergeant McBain’s eyes, but it hadn’t. McBain made the old school look progressive – chain of command was everything to him.
&nbs
p; ‘Watch a lot of Juliet Bravo when you were a kid, did you? Or maybe it’s The Bill you like …?’
Helen said nothing. These were rhetorical questions, laced with derision and contempt.
‘Let me remind you, Constable, that you are still learning. This is just a rotation, one I expect you to serve like anyone else – quietly, efficiently, diligently. You do what I tell you, when I tell you, is that clear?
‘Yes, sir,’ Helen accepted, keeping her eyes to the floor to avoid betraying her anger at this aggressive dressing-down. She was sure the other rookies could hear this bollocking and suspected that was part of the point.
‘You may think you’re CID material, but I don’t,’ McBain continued. ‘You’ve no discipline, no respect for rank or protocol … which is why I’m taking you off active duty.’
‘But, sir –’
‘Until further notice, you will be on cone duty. I hope you like roadworks, WPC Grace, because you’re going to be seeing a lot of them from now on.’
Helen wanted to protest, but knew it was pointless.
‘Now piss off before I really lose my temper.’
Helen rode back to her flat, angry with life and angry with herself. She had done the right thing – though admittedly not in the right way – and had been soundly punished for it. The Christmas season was just beginning, meaning traffic chaos, endless bumps and shunts and of course the festive roadworks. Helen would be getting a close-up view of all of the above. That was McBain’s Christmas present to her.
The city centre was already gridlocked with cars, the Christmas shopping already in full swing. Helen didn’t dawdle. Everywhere she looked she saw couples strolling arm in arm, families laughing, dads struggling along the street with huge carrier bags filled with presents. It was a sight that would have cheered most people, but not Helen. She had few happy memories of the festive season to call on and no one to spend it with.
She would never say it out loud, but the truth was that Helen really hated Christmas.
16
The fates seemed to be conspiring against Helen today. As soon as she stepped inside her flat, she heard the strains of Mr Blobby. Peeking inside the living room door, Helen saw that Tina was home, partying with some of her hospital colleagues. They had clearly been hitting the Archers and were in boisterous mood, singing along to Top of the Pops. Helen had little interest in pop music, but she had hoped that Take That would manage to cling on to the No. 1 spot for Christmas. Mr Blobby, however, would not be denied and his ‘song’ rolled around the flat now.
‘There you are at last! Come and join us!’
Helen looked up to see Tina coming towards her, red-faced and happy. And for a moment Helen was tempted to join in the party, but even as she took a step into the room, she found herself saying:
‘Maybe in a bit. There’s a couple of things I need to do first.’
Heading for her bedroom, Helen cursed herself. She knew her flatmates thought she was weird – a loner – but they still tried to be friendly and it wouldn’t kill her to reciprocate. But the truth was that she always felt out on a limb at these things, because she didn’t drink and was crap at small talk. Besides, she had a duty to perform. Her sole duty of the festive season.
Sitting down on her bed, Helen opened the Christmas cards she’d bought from WH Smith. She had only wanted one, but you had to buy twenty of course – perhaps she could give one to Tina and Justin as a peace offering, though what she’d say in them she wasn’t sure.
She was no more certain what to write now. So instead she scribbled the address on the envelope first: Marianne Haynes, Holloway Prison, 392 Camden Road, London N7 0SJ. This was the easy part, summoning up the right words to say to a sister who neither expected nor wanted the card was slightly harder. Every year she wrote the card, every year it was sent back unopened. Yet still she persisted. Why? Because she felt guilty about turning her sister in? Because she wanted to bring herself and her sister some solace during this annual celebration of ‘family’? Or simply because she still loved her?
It was impossible to say, so picking up her pen Helen wrote her standard message. ‘Thinking of you as always. All my love, Jodie.’ It wasn’t much but Helen hoped Marianne would read it one day and see that she meant it. Despite everything she loved and missed her sister and wanted to see her again – if her sister would let her.
Looking up, Helen was surprised to find Tina standing in her room.
‘Sorry, I did knock, but …’
‘Away with the fairies,’ Helen said quickly, sliding the card into the envelope.
‘Anyway, there’s a phone call for you. Someone important by the sounds of it.’
Thanking Tina, Helen hurried to the kitchen, pulling the door to behind her. She picked up the receiver and was surprised to find Detective Inspector Whittaker on the other end.
‘Do you usually make senior officers wait that long?’
‘No, sir, not at all, you caught me in the middle of something –’
‘Got someone there with you, have you?’
‘No, no, I mean –’
‘You don’t need to answer that. I was just calling to let you know that having reviewed the evidence we’ve decided to take this further.’
Helen felt a flush of excitement, but said nothing.
‘We’re having a push on people trafficking and we’ve decided there is sufficient evidence to justify a raid on Manor Farm. We’re going tonight and if you fancy it … I might let you tag along.’
17
Half an hour later, Helen found herself in the back of an unmarked van. The atmosphere inside was tense – a handful of plainclothes officers sitting cheek by jowl, pondering what might lie ahead. They had already had their briefing, so conversation was minimal, which made Helen feel even more self-conscious. She was the only woman in the van. She was the only traffic cop in the van. She wanted to chat, to try and break down barriers. But no one seemed to want to engage. Except Whittaker.
‘You been on one of these things before?’
‘Not part of our training, I’m afraid.’
‘Which is why yours is a watching brief. You’re here to assist us, nothing more.’
‘Of course.’
‘McBain doesn’t even know you’re here. If I return you damaged, well, he’d never forgive me.’
It was said with a smile and Helen couldn’t help smiling back in response.
‘Or perhaps it’s the bad guys I should be worried about,’ Whittaker continued. ‘And the damage you could inflict on them …’
‘Perhaps,’ Helen replied coyly, though she liked the feeling his compliment gave her. She worked hard in the gym every day to make sure she was as tough, as quick, as sharp as any male officer.
‘Why did you do join up, Helen? You must have been pretty young.’
Helen shrugged. She didn’t want to go there, especially not with the other CID officers listening.
‘Dad in the force?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Local girl who wants to give something back?’
‘I’m not from around here.’
‘Should have guessed. You can’t really disguise that London twang, can you?’
It was an invitation to share, but Helen wasn’t going to accept it. Whittaker was clearly interested in her, though in what way Helen couldn’t tell. She was in enough trouble already, so decided not to encourage his interest. For now at least.
Mercifully, she was spared further interrogation by a sharp rap on the back of the driver’s cab, even as the van came to a gentle halt.
They had arrived.
18
The farm was swathed in darkness. The dogs slumbered gently, still tethered to their posts, but otherwise the yard was deserted, save for the gentle nocturnal clucking emanating from the turkey coops. After a busy day’s toil, everyone was finally at rest.
The chain link fences were padlocked together, but the flimsy metal lock was no match for the bolt cutters. A CID office
r, now wearing a Hampshire Police bib over his stab vest, removed it quickly, then silently pulled open the gates for the van to enter. As the van drove in, the dogs began to stir. Sensing this, the officer rapped the outside of the van. Immediately, the officers swarmed out, separating and fanning out across the yard.
By the time Helen hopped down from the back of the van, the dogs were in full voice. They snarled and leapt towards her, flashing their long, white teeth in anger. Helen had no doubt they were capable of inflicting serious injuries and was glad they were soundly tethered. Judging by the protruding ribs and missing patches of fur, they were deliberately kept hungry and angry for just that reason.
There were shouts coming from the house now and Helen moved quickly away from the dogs. The officers’ torch beams could be seen dancing in the darkened farmhouse and the gloomy outbuildings, searching for Raynor and his workers. As yet there was no sign of either and Helen suddenly wondered if she could be wrong. There was no concrete link between their RTA victim and this place, just Helen’s conjecture and a few pieces of circumstantial evidence. If she was wrong and she made Southampton CID look foolish, she would not be allowed to forget it.
Helen suddenly felt very alone in the middle of the yard, despite the attention of the dogs, so carried on towards the house. As she did so, she heard a loud thud. It came from one of the buildings adjoining the house and Helen moved quickly to it now. Stepping inside, she saw that it was a vast hangar. To her surprise, it was completely empty, but the caked blood on the floor revealed its significance. This was the slaughterhouse.
More noises. A scrambling sound on the roof above. Then seconds later, a figure dropped down, hitting the floor hard. A brief yelp of pain, then the figure scrambled to his feet, running from the building and away. Helen looked out into the yard hoping that someone had spotted the fugitive, but the nearest officer was over 200 feet away. She cried out to him, but she knew she had the best chance of catching the fleeing figure, so turning on her heel, she sprinted after him.
Running Blind (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 3