by Liz Mistry
‘Oh for…’ I stride across the room, remove the clamps and butt plug from her tiny hands and throw them on the bed. Swinging her onto my hip, I head for the door, wondering what else she’s touched, what else she’s seen. Fucking idiot, should’ve locked the damn door. Need to get a grip on things. Can’t let what happened earlier distract me. Got to hold things together for Jessie and me mam.
‘You cross, Jo Jo?’
Her scrunched up nose and the downward tip of her lips tells me she’s near to tears. I nuzzle my forehead into her hair and force a smile. ‘No, Jessie. Course not. Now back to bed for you. It’s a school day tomorrow.’
As I carry her from the room, the insistent flashing light on my laptop taunts me, reminding me I’ve got work to do. Nearly show time and I’m still not oiled up. Just hope to God tonight’s client dun’t want owt too kinky. After everything that’s happened this evening, I’m so not in the mood.
CHAPTER 9
S weat pooled under Gus’ armpits as he made his way towards the Haunted House which was lit by harsh white light blasting from the spotlights. Still eerie, the savage lighting lent an almost ethereal glow to proceedings, conjuring up images in his mind of elves and fairies and goblins rather than the much scarier Smiling Jack that Karim had spoken about earlier. The house still loomed, silent and brooding, but its edges looked smoother, less abrasively threatening. Gus smiled and shrugged off the lingering fear he’d experienced as a child when dusk had crept up on him and his friends unexpectedly.
Near the front door of the house, he stopped and turned around to judge both the distance and the view to the road. As expected, visibility was poor. There was no risk of a passer-by noticing anything out of the ordinary unless they actually entered the grounds. What had enticed this young lad into the shrubbery? A dare gone wrong? Drug deal? Illicit meeting with a girlfriend… or boyfriend… or prostitute?
Moving closer, Gus could hear the mumbled voices of the crime scene officers. He dreaded putting on his crime scene suit – never had the term ‘boiler suit’ seemed more apt. He admired the fortitude of the crime scene techs who, without complaint, worked in them despite the heat. Hissing Sid’s team had already erected a crime scene tent around the body and Gus was keen to view it in situ before it was moved to the morgue. When he reached the inner crime scene cordon, Gus signed himself in, before struggling into the suit he’d grabbed from a plastic box, abandoned on the parched grass.
His father’s voice drifted through from inside. For once, he couldn’t summon up the energy to be irked that his dad was the pathologist on call. Keeping to the metal treads, he approached a cluster of CSIs in white coveralls who were busy processing the scene. Gus was happy that his dad insisted on seeing the body where it lay. It was part of the deal his old man had signed with himself years ago when he first became a pathologist. Gus himself had signed a similar deal with himself when he became a detective. The weight that had settled in the pit of his stomach made him expect the worst. There was no way a teenager would be lying dead in the shrubbery of this derelict house if it wasn’t suspicious circumstances. Taffy’s notion of unseen evil suddenly didn’t seem so far-fetched. Gus shuddered and peered into the shadows, trying to dispel the feeling that just out of sight a monster was lurking. Get a grip, Gus! He thrust those thoughts away and concentrated on the death he had been called out to investigate. Suicide, murder, or a grotesque accident, it made no difference to Gus. There was still a family out there somewhere who would be woken in the middle of the night to learn that they were minus a loved one and it was Gus’ job to get to the bottom of it for them.
The two officers who’d called it in had referred to it as a murder scene and, although he hadn’t said so, the lad, Karim, clearly thought that too. Fully covered and with damp dreads tucked inside his hood to avoid cross contamination of the area, Gus popped his head through the flap. ‘Okay to come in, Sid?’
A man of smaller stature turned and grinned at him. ‘Well if it isn’t Gussy boy, late to the party but welcome, nonetheless. Come on in. Your dad’s just about finished doing his magic.’
Used to Hissing Sid’s blasé humour, Gus ignored the other man’s tone and stepped through the flap into a wall of heat that immediately made him want to strip down to his shorts and T-shirt. A quick glance at his dad told him he was suffering too. His round face, ruddier than usual, was dappled with droplets of sweat and his beard had become a cluster of tight curls in the humidity. If Gus was struggling, his dad would be nearly at the end of his tether – a big man who carried a sizeable amount of excess weight, this weather was torture to him, especially when wrapped in a crime scene suit in the narrow confines of a sweltering tent.
Deliberately, Gus cleared his mind of any thoughts and approached the body, which was hidden by his father’s large frame. Dr McGuire moved to the side in silence. His gaze remained on the boy sprawled on his back on the brown weeds as he allowed his son time to take in the scene.
The lad looked younger than sixteen and if it hadn’t been for the knife protruding from his neck and the pool of coagulating blood on the grass beneath him, he could have been enjoying a doze. From the position of the head, face upwards, eyes closed, Gus could tell that he’d been placed like that deliberately. If he’d fallen, his head would naturally have angled to the opposite side from the entry wound. This observation was corroborated by the way the lad’s legs were stretched straight out like tram lines, his toes pointing to the sky. Skinny legs stuck out from his denim shorts with a pair of newish looking Nike trainers on his feet. His arms had been brought forward and his hands clasped together on his abdomen, rather like he was in a coffin. Loosely grasped in his fingers was an iPhone.
Gus’ gaze trailed up to the lad’s face. A spattering of acne across his forehead and faint stubble on his chin seemed to emphasise the waste of life. His clothes were fashionable although not ostentatiously so. If the phone belonged to the lad, which seemed likely, Gus was sure they’d get an ID soon enough. He turned to Sid. ‘When you’ve done photographing here can you get that phone off to the lab? I want to ID the kid asap.’ Bending down to get a closer look, Gus spoke to the uniformed officer who’d accompanied him into the tent. ‘No missing person’s reports tonight?’
‘No, sir. I’ve asked them to alert us if any come in fitting the lad’s description.’
Satisfied, Gus nodded. ‘Right, Sid, if Dr McGuire has finished and you’ve done your bit, can we check for other ID?’
‘Done it just before you arrived. The lad’s got nothing on him – nowt in his pockets. Maybe whoever did this to him swiped it.’
The weapon looked like any bog-standard kitchen knife, but they’d be able to get a brand and so on after it had been removed at the post mortem. Gus leaned in closer to the lad and sniffed. Apart from the coppery blood smell which he was desperately trying to ignore, he could detect something else. ‘Alcohol?’
Sid clapped his gloved hands, making a slappy seal type of sound. ‘Well done. Yep. I thought there was some booze consumed, so I got them,’ he gestured widely with his hands to incorporate his team, ‘to bag up all the bottles they find for printing. Maybe we’ll be lucky and find our killer’s prints.’ He kicked the ground. ‘We’re fortunate it’s been so dry. Almost perfect crime scene for us. No deterioration of evidence. Hopefully we’ll get summat.’ He paused and an elongated squeaky sound rent the air.
For a second, Gus looked round to identify the source of the noise before jumping to his feet, gagging. ‘For fuck’s sake, Sid. As if it’s not bad enough in here without your pollution. Get the fuck away from me if all you can contribute is toxic farts.’
Sid looked at him, his smile clear even behind his mask. ‘Summat’s got to lighten the atmosphere, Gus.’
A quick glance at his dad told Gus that he was unamused too. ‘Not the time nor the place as you well know. Just get out of here and let me talk to the doc. You really need to quit this shit, Sid. Nobody is amused – nobody!’
A ripple of approval went around the tent and one of the CSIs who’d paused to observe the disagreement nodded. Sid looked at them, then at Gus, before leaving the tent.
Releasing a sigh, Gus looked at his dad, who slapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘He needs to know, laddie. It’s getting beyond a joke and he does it on purpose. You did right telling him.’
Gus wasn’t so sure his pulling rank on the CSI officer wouldn’t come back to bite him on the arse. He’d had a run in with Hissing Sid previously and things were only just beginning to mend and now he’d felt compelled to pull him up yet again for disrespectful behaviour. Truth was, Gus had been on edge, trying to control his reaction to the blood, otherwise he’d probably have pulled Sid to the side and admonished him privately rather than in public. On second thoughts, he’d given Sid ample warnings previously and he’d chosen to ignore them. Maybe a short sharp shock was necessary. He pulled his thoughts back to the boy lying before them and focussed. ‘Jugular?’
Doc McGuire, with effort, lowered himself onto one knee and inspected the wound. ‘Yes, a forceful, vicious stab wound delivered by a right-handed person standing in front of him. However,’ he leaned forward and turned the boy’s wrists, ‘these striations indicate to me that the victim was tied up. These cuts are quite deep into the skin.’
Gus studied the cuts. ‘Looks like cable tie marks to me.’
One of the CSIs stepped forward holding out a bag containing a cable tie that had been sliced open. ‘Funny you should say that. Just found this over in the bush at the back. There’s blood trace on this.’
Gus smiled a thank you before looking at an area to the side of the boy’s head where his dad was pointing. A series of faint bruises at either side of his skull fanned out with five distinct pressure points ranging from his forehead down to his jawline.
‘Fingerprints?’
Dr McGuire nodded. ‘It looks to me like someone held his head steady with a vice-like grip.’ He struggled back to his feet, indicated that Gus should turn around and then positioned his hands on Gus’ head. His father’s spread fingers touched Gus’ forehead and temple and his thumb rested at his lower jaw an inch or so below his ear.
It was odd to be so close to his dad like this, especially at a crime scene. It took him back to the rough and tumble they’d enjoyed when he was a kid. It seemed like years ago and his dad had added a substantial amount of weight in the interim which was why he was breathing so hard in Gus’ ear now. He’d maybe have a word with his mum about putting him on a diet. Last thing he wanted was for the old bugger to keel over from a heart attack. ‘So, there were two of them?’
‘Looks pretty much like it to me. As usual, I’ll be able to tell you more after the PM, but I think the bruising on his head happened at around the same time… no I’m pretty certain of that.’
Gus bit his lip and took a few minutes to study the boy. Kids’ deaths were hard. He wondered what this lad’s aspirations had been. Did he play sports? Was he arty? Who were his friends? His relatives? It didn’t matter to Gus whether he’d been clever or not, whether he’d been talented or not… he was a kid whose life had been snuffed out violently and that meant that Gus was committed to finding whoever had done it. He waited for his dad to give instructions about the removal of the body and together they left the tent, retracing their steps over the metal treads.
Gus’ limbs felt heavy and trickles of sweat rolled down his back, soaking into the T-shirt he wore under the suit. A minuscule breeze had picked up. Not enough to cool the air but enough to send gentle wafts of his dad’s body odour in Gus’ direction. The oppressive heat combined with the wonky air conditioning at The Fort meant that the past few weeks had been filled with an array of BO, with top notes of different perfumes and deodorants designed to disguise the smell. The weather couldn’t break soon enough for Gus, yet the forecast showed no signs of a change.
As they moved closer to the road, Gus’ phone rang, startling him. It was a ringtone he rarely heard any more, ‘The Bitch is Back’, and yet this was the third time today. Seemingly his dad also recognised it. ‘You and Gabriella speaking again?’
Gus and his ex-wife had been avoiding each other for the past few months. Partly because she blamed him for her brother’s death and partly because Gus couldn’t stand the conflict she inevitably brought to his life. He flicked the phone to dismiss her call and shrugged. ‘I’ve spoken to Katie, but not Gabriella. She’s phoned a few times today, but I just can’t handle her.’
‘You’ll have to speak to her sometime, lad. She’s living with your sister, you can’t just pretend she doesn’t exist forever, you know? Besides…’
Besides nothing. Gus had had enough of his ex-wife’s machinations to last a lifetime. Cursing inside, Gus smiled a tight smile and remained silent. Trust Gabriella to ring when he was with his dad. He’d had enough of his parents trying to smooth things over between them ‘for Katie’s sake’. He had the grace to feel a little bad for his sister, but overall, he couldn’t summon up the energy to give a shit about Gabriella. He had more important relationships to nurture – like the one with Patti and the one with his team… thinking of his team made him think of Alice and another wave of tiredness rolled over him.
‘…maybe they need you right now.’
Really? Gus looked at his dad, hurt that he’d play the guilt card. Giving himself a mental shake, he ignored his dad’s words, raised a hand in farewell and strode towards Taffy who was waiting for him by the car. ‘I’ll send Taffy to the PM tomorrow, Dad. Let me know when it is.’
He could feel his father’s eyes on his back as he walked away, but he couldn’t bring himself to look back. This was the first PM he had delegated to a subordinate officer, yet for once, he carried no guilt. Taffy enjoyed the PMs, while Gus struggled with them. The work with his psychiatrist on delegating stuff was paying off.
CHAPTER 10
H eart hammering, I run down past the BRI, past the Duckworth Lane Roundabout, down Lilycroft Road, past The Fort and onto Oak Lane. Downhill all the way. My throat’s raw through breathing in the warm night air. My hoodie sticks to me, damp and uncomfortable. As I pass Mo’s Samosas, I slow slightly, wishing for even a small gasp of air to cool me down. Fucking café. No way I’ll be helping there ever again. On cue, my phone vibrates… him again… Mo. What can’t he just leave me alone?
Mo: You okay, Zarqa? It’s late. Mum and I are worried about you. Let us know you’re okay, love Dad xxx
I shove it back in my pocket, wishing I could throw it on the road and jump on it. Better still, I wish it was Mo’s head. Then I’d really enjoy stamping on it. My hair’s tangled and sweat pours down my face, dripping off my chin. Impatient, I wipe my face with the sleeve of my hoodie. Then, gasping for air, I fold forward, resting my hands on my knees and try to draw breath. Apart from my own raw pants, the night is filled with sounds. Cars slow down as they reach the traffic lights at Manningham Lane. Distant sirens compete with souped-up lad racers. Over by the bank, the two homeless blokes I often see in the park are having an argument. The sounds roll over me, soothing me, and at last my breathing slows and my lungs stop hurting quite so much.
What the fuck have we done, Jo Jo and me? What the fuck did we do? I pushed him into it… forced him, really. He wasn’t keen, had his reservations… but I wouldn’t let go. Wouldn’t give up. My breath hitches in my throat and I snort back a sob. Too bloody late to be getting upset now. Way too late.
I notice the group of lads behind me. They’re still a distance away, but I can hear their voices; loud and full of swag. They’re probably all right, but I can’t be arsed with the hassle, so I straighten up, flip my hood back over my head, tuck my hair inside, and bulk up my frame before turning into my street. When I reach my house, the lights are on behind the curtains. That’s the last thing I need – another yelling match. I turn on my heels, ready to retrace my steps – I’d rather take my chances with the Oak Lane lads than face Mo and my mum right now. I take two steps and f
alter.
Ping!
Mum: Zarqa, please come home. You need your sleep, beti. Remember you’ve got an exam tomorrow? We’re not cross. Just come home, Love Mum, xxx
Aw shit! My knees buckle a little as a wave of exhaustion rolls over me. I’ve enough sense to realise it’s because of the adrenalin rush… that and guilt. I close my eyes for a second and then hear the chirrup chirrup of a car lock further down the street. That makes my mind up for me. Instead of heading back, I turn and squeeze myself through the hedge that borders our property and practically fall in a heap on the grass in the corner of the garden. This little bit of ground is just out of reach of the security sensor, so unless a fox or something strolls across the middle of the garden or up the main path, I should remain undetected for now.
I pull my hoodie off, peeling it off my arms like shedding a layer of flesh. The warm air feels good on my skin. It doesn’t cool me, but quickly dries my sweat. I scrunch forward and manage to spread the hoodie under my bum before pulling my knees up under my chin and hugging them close to my chest. For what seems like a long time, I watch the shadows cast by the street lighting and the moon flicker before me. Each one is familiar to me, yet right now, none of them seems real. It’s as if they’re dissociated from me – part of another life, another time. The garden shed where I used to play with my dolls, the playhouse that my sisters use now, the washing whirligig, permanently open now it’s summer, the shed where we keep the logs for winter… it all seems alien… like it was never mine.
I roll my head, trying to ease the crick in my neck and exhale. Now, I’m here, the night closing in around me, the sounds from the road muted, I need to think. I really need to think. What Jo Jo and I did tonight was bad… really bad. My mind keeps flashing to the actual act – the final act, but I can’t let it stay there. I’ve got to think smart. What is it my godfather, Gus, always says? Yep that’s it: ‘It’s the forensics that let them down every time, Zarqa.’