COVER BLOWN: covert police work clashes with a murder investigation

by Ian Robinson

  ‘Anything I should know about, George?’ Nash enquired, as Sagona took a sip of the coffee she’d dutifully made.

  ‘Yeah, I have three sugars and more milk,’ he replied. He smacked his lips at the bitter brew she’d created while he tapped away at the computer’s keyboard and waited as various secure login screens were accessed.

  ‘I’m not your wife, George. Be sure to let me know as soon as you wake up and find something of use, won’t you?’ She patted Sagona on the shoulder and left him to it, returning to her office.

  Nash looked at her own mug of tepid grit. She poured the remainder into a trailing begonia that occupied the windowsill. She grabbed her coat and a folder of paperwork that required attention. Even with the addition of an app for HOLMES, she still preferred the old ways of paper. The cafe across Aerodrome Road was open. It was nestled within a community of small residential blocks. She enjoyed the fresh air the short walk provided and was pleased to smell the scent of decent coffee, as she got closer. The door was open. She entered and ordered a latte and English breakfast. She found an upstairs table and WhatsApp’d Moretti, telling him where she’d be if he needed her. She remembered he was going straight to the post-mortem as she pressed send.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The post-mortem revealed little more than the initial scene had presented. It confirmed Melissa had died from asphyxiation by strangling. No other bruising visible other than at the base of her neck and back of her head now that hair had been removed. A bruise was evident, indicative of where her head had been bashed against the rim of the roll top bath before being held below the surface of the water against the floor of the tub. There were no signs of recent sexual activity. Bloods had been taken for toxicology and they’d have to wait on those results.

  There was an absence of any prescription medications at the scene. Paracetamol was the strongest tablet found. That packet was a blister pack and only two were missing from a new box purchased locally. The sticky price label on the outside told them this. No drug paraphernalia was present or spent works. It’s not unknown for wealthy professionals in the city to partake of a line of cocaine – whatever it took to keep these high-flyers awake, productive and ahead of their competition.

  Moretti welcomed the fresh air as he exited the mortuary building. He needed to call Nash to update her on the results but he needed a smoke. He’d vowed to Nash before Christmas he’d give up – again. He wasn’t one for New Year resolutions. Dry January and Veganuary could take a hike until the same time next year.

  He blinked against the sun’s harsh rays as he leant against the building’s wall. He found his Ray-Bans and put them on. Dr King would have a busy morning as a few of the slabs were already occupied. A triple stabbing from last night had been picked up by one of the other teams.

  Moretti’s phone vibrated in his trouser pocket. He looked at the screen. The name “Wotnow” was displayed. It was Nash.

  ‘I was about to call you,’ he said.

  He inhaled on his Savinelli briar one last time as he scanned for a cigarette bin to tap the spent ash out of the bowl. He whacked the bowl against the sole of his boot and floored it into a patch of grass.

  ‘You always say that and yet here I am chasing you for the update the team are all waiting for,’ she jested.

  He updated Nash on what Dr King had discovered. Nash made noises that told Moretti she was listening. The conversation was brief.

  ‘Come back to the office. I’ll meet you there and we’ll head out. I need to visit somewhere then we’ll go over to the victim’s place of work,’ Nash informed him.

  ‘Sure. Has the victim’s family been told?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yes. I had a call from George. They’re flying over from Germany today. JJ will meet them at the airport with Frank. He’s the FLO for this one. What happened to the cat? The family were asking. And also a pet passport that the victim had for it?’ Nash asked.

  ‘I’ll call JJ and ask him. I assumed the RSPCA had collected it but I’ll confirm with him,’ he replied.

  Nash hung up and Moretti rang JJ. The phone rang out a while before it was answered. In the background Moretti heard a loud bass beat and the sound of something heavy and metallic being dropped to the floor. He held his phone’s speaker away from his ear. The music reduced in volume as JJ’s deep voice appeared on the line.

  ‘Skip, what’s up?’ he asked. His voice clambering for breath.

  ‘Where are you? It sounds like a night club?’

  ‘I’m in the basement gym, quick set for the guns then I’m on it, promise. I missed a day’s training yesterday so my head’s messed up, but all good now,’ JJ replied.

  ‘Be quick. Nash’s coming back from wherever she’s holed up and she thinks you’re all out where you should be. JJ, we do have a live job you know?’ Moretti reminded him. The tone of his voice was indicative that he was serious.

  JJ remained silent but Moretti could make out from his steadied breathing he felt guilt at his warped priorities.

  ‘Fair enough, Nick, I’m on it. Was there something you needed?’ he asked respectfully.

  ‘She was asking about the cat. The RSPCA collected it from the flat, right?’

  Moretti waited for JJ’s response. There was silence. A silence that every detective knows means the shit’s about to hit the fan.

  ‘Shit… shit… shit, I’ve gotta go.’ JJ killed the call.

  Moretti stared at his phone. They’d had a busy end to the year and as much as he appreciated they’d be exhausted, he required everyone’s full attention to the case. He’d deal directly with JJ regarding the cat, which he was all too aware could be a major issue. Nash’s answer could wait. For how long was the only question.

  For DC Jules Jackson, or JJ, as he was known to all, the last call he’d taken was going to go down in history as one of his worst. He sat on the weights bench and lay down between the two support brackets under the long bar that loomed above his eyeline. What would have filled him with joy, as he used it to work out his pectoral muscles, now filled him with trepidation. He wanted the gym to cave in and swallow him up.

  He covered his face with his calloused shovel hands. Sweat rolled from his close-cropped Afro as he tried to remember what he’d done with that blue crate. The blue crate he’d been extra careful to ensure was secured but comfortable for his adopted feline companion.

  He scooped up his job mobile from the floor where he’d thrown it as soon as he’d hung up on Moretti. It was still serviceable thanks to the protective cover it was contained in. Builder proof.

  He dispensed with his shower, dressed and went back to the office. As he entered the incident room he let his eyes rove until they latched on to whom he needed. DC Mike Brown the exhibits officer. He nodded at Brown in the internationally recognised way that indicated he needed to step outside and fast. Brown pointed at himself, and when JJ rapidly confirmed with his head it was him that he so desperately required, he got up and strolled outside into a small room that stored the team’s filing cabinets.

  JJ shut the door. They both stood in the thin corridor between the two banks of cabinets whose drawers were braced at the front by a steel rod and padlocked at the top. JJ leant against one; his hands cupped his chin while his fingers braced his cheeks.

  ‘Mike, I’m in the shit,’ he explained.

  ‘Go on,’ Brown said, giving JJ time to get composed. He wouldn’t give him long as he had a desk of exhibits that needed to go back in the cage. Leaving them in an open office wasn’t something he desired. Cops were terrible for pranks.

  ‘The blue crate… the blue crate… where is it?’ JJ asked.

  ‘There are loads of blue crates… wait… not the one with the cat in? You prick!’

  ‘Fuck me, Mike, this is serious. I’ve lost the victim’s pet. Nash finds out and I’m off the unit or worse, out of a job for neglect of duty,’ JJ said.

  Mike realised that JJ may not be the only one to lose his job. Mike was exhibits officer and it wa
s his primary purpose to account for every exhibit from finding to court. He’d have to explain everything that had happened to that cat and should know where it was. All movement needed to come through him. He composed himself and placed both hands on his mate’s shoulders.

  ‘Jonesy took a load of crates back last night. It must have been among those. They’re in the exhibits cage. I’ll get the key and we’ll go and find it. You can give me a hand to carry some stuff down there so it won’t make it so obvious,’ Mike replied.

  They entered the room and began to search.

  * * *

  Nash was back in her office. She’d brought a takeout coffee for herself. Moretti rushed past her open office door saying nothing. She thought he looked flustered and put that down to a new investigation and the pressure that came when a murder broke. The first two weeks usually being the most intense. She sat down and checked her emails. Twenty minutes passed when her attention was interrupted by a shadow cast across her desk. JJ framed the doorway and gave a soft knock.

  ‘It’s open, sit down,’ she said.

  Johnson did as instructed, pushing the door over behind him but not so far that it shut completely. It was as though he was making preparation for a hasty escape. He sat on the makeshift bed Nash had arranged and sat forward, his hands out in front of him, head down. Nash sensed she was about to hear a confession. She’d seen the pose from many detectives when they were about to own up to one or many misdemeanours or sleights of judgement. If it arrived at her door, and not Moretti’s, she knew the problem was bigger than the DS wished to manage. Nash dimmed her screen and nodded for JJ to speak.

  ‘Out with it, big man,’ she said.

  JJ looked up, his pupils like orbs of angst trapped in a milk pond.

  ‘Boss, I’ve screwed up… really messed up… I was tired from many things: work, life, training and, bottom line, I’ve lost the crate with the cat in. I dunno where it is. I’ve turned the exhibits room upside down but I can’t find it. I asked Jonesy and he says he never collected it from Mike… Look, I’m not blaming anyone else but me; I’m just saying I don’t know where the fuck the thing is.’

  JJ turned to look out the window that overlooked the parade square such was his embarrassment.

  A knock at the door caused both their heads to snap across at the entrance as Moretti appeared. He eased himself into the room conscious he’d arrived at just the wrong time.

  ‘There you are, JJ…’

  ‘Get in here, now, and get Mike too,’ Nash said.

  Moretti’s head jolted back at the venom in her voice. He shouted for Brown who had been waiting outside and stepped across the Rubicon into Nash’s office. They both sat next to JJ.

  Nash smoothed her skirt and addressed them all.

  ‘I expect professionalism from my staff at all times. Especially when they are at a murder scene. I shouldn’t need to remind experienced detectives that the control of exhibits is paramount.’

  None of them budged from their respective positions as she continued.

  ‘A simple task. Call the RSPCA and make sure Melissa’s pet is taken care of and yet none of you had the common sense to ensure that was done, and yes, I’m referring to you too, DS Moretti, as I expressly asked you to make sure of this. But no, here we all are, the victim’s family arriving all the way from Germany to ID their only daughter and take possession of a significant reminder of their daughter’s life, and you three have gone and lost it!’

  Nash sat back and let them stew.

  They sat in silence. All looked away from Nash. Her desk had become a barrier of authority. Moretti looked at the door and wished he could leave, angry at his admonishment in front of the DCs but in his heart knew it was deserved. JJ looked out the window and wished he was back in the gym, anywhere but here in front of judge and executioner the Right Honourable, Pippa Nash. Brown stared at the floor as he contemplated a life back on a borough CID team or worse, uniform.

  Moretti was the first to offer an explanation.

  ‘Look, guv, I just want to expl–’

  Nash was rocking from side to side in her swivel chair. She had the appearance of a villain from an old James Bond film. The cat was on her lap. It pawed at her legs until it was in a comfortable position and settled. As she stroked the head of the white ball of fluff, the cat purred with contentment. From where all the offenders sat they couldn’t see Nash’s feet where the blue crate had been the entire time.

  Nash had found the crate last night after hearing scratching coming from within. It had been left in the incident room. A chance discovery but one she was glad to have made. The cat was drowsy, but fine, and she’d given it water and it relaxed. She’d brought food back from the small Tesco Express supermarket next to the cafe she’d visited earlier, along with two bowls, a lead and a litter tray.

  The room remained silent as they watched her stroke the feline. Nash’s eyes bore into them. She draped the cat over her shoulder as she got up and walked over to where they were sat. She perched on the edge of her desk; her voice became lower and serene in tone but contained the same veracity of message.

  ‘Wake up. All of you, and get on with the job I expect you to do. JJ, take the cat out for the toilet. There’s a lead in the carrier by your feet,’ she said, then turned to Moretti. ‘DS Moretti, go back out there and make sure everyone is under no illusion that I will stand for nothing but one hundred percent professionalism and effort in the apprehension of Melissa’s killer. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  They both got up and Nash handed JJ the cat.

  ‘The victim’s family will be at the mortuary at midday. I want the cat to be available to them along with the passport that’s in the same bag as the lead. I’ve phoned the airport and they will ensure the family are met by an airport official who will ensure the cat is placed in a secure crate, in comfort, for travel back to Germany. It’s called victim care, something you all need to remind yourselves about.’

  Nash turned her back on them. She’d left Frank Mason, the FLO, out of the arrangements. She didn’t wish him to be involved with this side of the house, it being such a mess, until she was satisfied she’d made all the arrangements that were needed. Meeting done.

  Nash handed Brown four statements of continuity for the care of the cat. One for him, the rest were copies for the inside team. He accepted the statements and they all paraded out in silence. Nash shut her door.

  Five minutes later she strode to the window and looked out. Below, on a small grass area, was JJ. The cat was attached to a pink sparkling lead, as he tried in vain to make it walk and toilet. Nash stifled a laugh and struggled to hold her coffee steady at the sight of JJ, as he tried in such a gentle way to coax the moggy to move as it played with the lead and rolled on its back.

  She turned back and grabbed her jacket and keys to her car. As she walked across the parade square she smiled and waved in the direction of JJ. He nodded and raised his eyes; relieved his nightmare was over. That was until he realised Nash wasn’t the only spectator. JJ turned and looked up. All he saw was a sea of other murder team detectives who stared and nudged each other as they waved at him and laughed at the sight he presented. JJ raised his hands in surrender, scooped up the cat and went back inside.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Nash turned up the volume on the car radio as Interpol’s The Weekend played. She wished it were the weekend and one she wasn’t on call for. She also wished she’d said no to DS Harris on the undercover unit when asked to deploy on one of his jobs, especially as she’d just lectured Moretti and the others that everyone must remain focussed on the murder. Nash was a trained undercover officer and had managed to avoid the unit’s radar since working on Homicide. A recent piece of joint work had come up where DS Harris needed a driver, and Nash fit the bill.

  Nash saw the mobile phone shop she required and parked her car well away from the venue. She’d always used this place when she was active in her undercover role and neede
d a pay-as-you-go phone for cash, no questions asked.

  Neon lights lit up the phone shop’s window. An assortment of second-hand phones were arranged in a display, along with an advert for Got Ur Back phone software. This allowed the phone user to track his or her phone with ease should it get stolen; there was no long-term payment or signup required, and it was better than the one installed on the phone at manufacture. An iron grille covered the window. This was a new development since she’d last visited.

  Before she entered the phone shop, she took off her jacket and undid a couple of shirt buttons. Dress up to dress down. Plus, she knew the owner was a pervert where she was concerned. He’d told her to call him Mace. A nickname of his and she didn’t question it. She hated technology, and at this shop a technically savvy assistant would set the phone up or repair screens if required, at no extra cost. All part of the care package that came with each phone sold.

  A buzzer sounded as Nash entered, her Barbour biker’s jacket slung over her shoulder as she strode in.

  ‘Well, well, well… long time no see,’ the Albanian owner said, the same man Nash knew as Mace. His eyes immediately dropped to her cleavage.

  ‘Business been slow for you then?’ he enquired with a wry smile.

  ‘Eyes up, Mace,’ she said as she browsed a display of various pay-as-you-go, unlocked phones.

  ‘Don’t bother yourself with any of those pieces of shit. As a valued customer I will look in the back for something better for you,’ he said.

  The owner shouted out to the void. A male in his twenties, olive skin, with similar dark sweptback hair as the owner, appeared from a dimly lit side room.

  ‘Go get the good stuff for our beautiful princess here,’ Mace said.

  The younger man nodded and left.

  ‘Just the phones and a couple of SIM cards will be great. So, what’s with the window?’ Nash asked the owner and they both glanced at the grille.

  The security measure was a robust feature, and as the sun cleared the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, the metal bars cast a cage-like image on the shop’s industrial-carpeted floor.