by Edward Figg
‘Interesting,’ said Kirby, as she perched herself on the corner of his desk. She looked down at him. ‘So why haven’t we found any record of him at the farm?’
He looked up at her. ‘Working for cash in hand, maybe. Nothing going through the books — that sort of thing?’
‘Could be. But more to the point, why the bloody hell hasn’t he come forward after the fire? Surely, he must have heard about it. Where the hell is he?’
‘Maybe he’s illegal. Too scared to come forward in case he gets deported.’ He held up his hand, remembering something. ‘No, hang on a bit.’ Lynch thumbed through his notes again. ‘The driver — his name is Noel Hardy, by the way — he did say this Ajmal’s English was “very ropey”. Had trouble understanding.’ His words, not mine. If he is illegal, he could well have gone to ground. That could explain why he hasn’t come forward. If he can’t speak English, it stands to reason he can’t read it either?’
‘Okay.’ She stood up. ‘Let’s make finding this Hakim our number one priority. Start with the mosque — the one over behind the Market Square. Have a word with the Imam. See if he knows anything about him. You might have to be a bit tactful.’ She tapped the side of her nose. ‘If he is illegal and they think you're there to nick him, he may not be too co-operative.’
Chapter 8
As Carter parked his car at the rear of the mortuary, the Town Hall clock was striking the half hour. The morgue was located close to the accident and the emergency department. It was separated by only a short corridor. Very convenient. The cold easterly wind blowing across the small parking area sent fallen leaves from a nearby oak tree spiralling upwards into the late afternoon air. He pressed the key fob, locking the doors, then walked towards the entrance. The building, a leftover from the Victorian era, was built of yellow stock brick with a pitched slate roof. It had fancy wooden carved eaves, ridge tiles and bargeboards, unlike the architecture of the main hospital, which was a product of the new age. Clean, crisp and bright.
A black mortuary van, parked close to the entrance, had its rear doors open. Two attendants were putting away a transport stretcher. He walked past the two men, pushed his way through the double doors, then headed along the glazed brick corridor. Halfway along, he found the door he was looking for. The plaque on one of the double doors was clearly marked “Pathology Department”. And under that was written Authorised Persons Only.
Looking through the viewing window and seeing the place was empty, he pushed the door and went in. He’d not been in here for a long time, but it was just as he remembered it. Nothing much had changed. The interior was dull, the walls partly lined with white tiles. It served its purpose. Cold and clinical was how it was once described to him. Bring ‘em in, cut ‘em up, move ‘em out.
He heard voices coming from outside in the corridor. The door behind him was thrown open and in walked James Broadbent, closely followed by George, his technician and general factotum. His primary task, among many others, was to assist Broadbent while he carried out the autopsies. Both wore green scrubs. In one hand, Broadbent held a clipboard and in the other, a takeaway coffee cup with its lid still on. They failed to notice Carter’s presence.
Sounding very irritated and in a raised voice, Broadbent said, ‘For God’s sake, George, don’t ever do that again. I had a hell of a job trying to explain that one away. From now on, you don’t bring that stuff in here. Is that understood? Find somewhere else to leave it. Is that clear?’
‘Yes. Okay, sorry,’ the technician said. Then, waving the piece of paper in his hand, said, ‘But on this form, it does say he was in draw number five, not in number six. It must have been someone on the night collection crew that stuffed it up,’ said George indignantly. Just as Broadbent was about to open his mouth, Carter politely coughed. Both men fell silent, turned and looked.
‘Ah, Chief Inspector. I see you got my message. Good.’ Turning back to the technician, he said, ‘Okay, George, get on with cleaning those instruments. We’ll finish this conversation later.’
With a sharp nod of the head, the defeated technician sauntered off down to the far end of the dissecting room.
‘Let’s go into my office, Chief Inspector. I have some preliminary finding for you.’ Once inside the office, Carter was given a chair. Broadbent brought the computer to life. While he waited for it to boot up, he leafed through some papers on the desk. After finding what he’d been searching for, he sat down. Taking the lid off the coffee cup, he lifted it to his mouth and swallowed.
‘Trouble with the hired help?’ asked Carter enquiringly.
‘George and his plonk. Just a bit of a misunderstanding, that’s all. All sorted now.’ He turned his attention to the computer, waited for the monitor to display, then tapped away at the keyboard. ‘George’s brother is a truck driver; does runs across the channel,’ he said, without looking up from the keyboard.
‘George occasionally gets him to bring back beer and wine. It was nothing illegal, all above board. I’ve even had a few of them myself. He comes through at night and drops the stuff off here. He leaves it all in one of the refrigerators. The same ones we use for the cadavers. Anyway. The bloody chief surgeon came down this morning to look at one of his patients that died overnight.
He’s old school; a bit of a stickler for the rules. Scares the shit out of his nursing staff. He came down, opened the wrong bloody draw and instead of a body, hey presto, there it was staring back at him. Three cartons of beer and a dozen bottles of white wine. I can tell you he was not impressed; he went ape shit. In the end, I managed to pull a story on him. I said that they were for my fiftieth birthday and that my fridge was on the blink and I needed somewhere to store them. The trouble is — the whole bloody thing went tits up, and now the old sod has invited himself to the party I’m not having.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be able to wangle your way out of it.’ said Carter, laughing. ‘If not, put me down on the guest list.’
Broadbent turned back to the screen and put on a pair of glasses. ‘This man of yours — you want to know how he died?’ He turned and looked at Carter. ‘Well, I can tell you that he was first tortured. Both his left and right hands and his fingers were broken, but that’s not what killed him.’ He lent over, picked up his coffee cup and took a mouthful then turned back to the screen.
‘He suffered fourth-degree burns. There is a presence of soot in the airways, particularly below the level of the vocal cords, and mixed with mucus in the distal airways is additional evidence supporting the fact that the deceased was alive right up to the point of being burnt. I can safely say he was unconscious. He would not have felt a thing.’
‘So, it was the fire that killed him?’ enquired Carter.
‘Correct. This morning I got the toxicology report back. ‘Our friend on the slab out there was given a lethal cocktail of drugs, the main one being Fentanyl. Fentanyl is a powerful synthetic opiate that’s more potent than even morphine. It’s a narcotic analgesic. It’s often used for cancer patients to deal with severe pain.’
‘Yes. I’ve heard of it,’ said Carter. ‘It’s nasty stuff.’
‘Nasty is not how I would describe it. Deadly is one word that comes to mind. If misused, it's bloody lethal, but in this case, your man would have been in a near coma. He wouldn’t have known what was going on. Just two milligrams of the stuff can kill a person very quickly. Unfortunately, the drug is also easier to produce than heroin. Drug dealers tend to prefer selling Fentanyl because the high doesn’t last as long as heroin’s, so addicts soon come back to buy more.’
‘So, the Fentanyl cocktail puts him to sleep, and the fire finished him off?’
‘Yes. Needless to say, I couldn’t find any injection point on the body because it was too badly burnt. I have got samples for DNA analysis. I assume you haven’t identified the victim yet?’
He shook his head. ‘Officially? No. We think it’s a man called Richard Eades. The DNA will tell us later. They’ve taken samples from the house.’
>
‘You’re looking at a real sadistic psycho, Chief Inspector. A cold-blooded murderer. One who thrives on torture, pain, violence and setting fire to things. He’s also handy at making homemade incendiary devices. I hope you find him.’
****
The small car park next to the mosque only had a few cars in it when Dave Lynch pulled in. Driving passed during prayer times, it was often full. He’d phoned earlier and asked to see the Imam, giving no hint as to what it was about. As he walked in, two men wearing long black robes were looking at a stack of rolled up prayer mats. They both turned towards him. Lynch knew a little of the religion and assumed they were preparing for Asr — their mid-afternoon prayers. One of them walked over and asked what he wanted.
Lynch introduced himself and showed his ID.
‘Ah, yes. Detective Constable Lynch. I am Zain Abbas, the Imam. I’m told you phoned earlier. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. You asked to see me.’ he said nervously. ‘Is there a problem?’ There was a slight hint of alarm in his voice. ‘Has there been another threat to our mosque?’
‘No, sir. It’s nothing like that. There’s no threat. I’ve come here in the hope that you might be able to help us with our inquiries. I’m trying to trace a man by the name of Ajmal Hakim. I was wondering if you knew him. Does he attend this mosque?’ Lynch studied the Imam’s face for any sign of recognition. He was surprised by his answer.
‘What has happened to him? Is he ok?’
‘So,’ he said. ‘You do know this man?’
‘Yes, he’s only been in our community for a short time. About just under a year, in fact. Has something happened to him? He is a good man, but his mind is still troubled by past events. He came here from Iran as a refugee. His wife and father-in-law were shot during the presidential election protests back in 2009. May I ask? Why do you want him? What has he done? Is he ok?’
‘That is what we are trying to determine, sir. We are trying to locate him. He’s not in any trouble,’ added Lynch. ‘We just need his help. When did you last have contact with him?’
Stroking his long black beard and, without hesitation, he said, ‘Saturday morning. Yes, it was Saturday morning. He regularly comes to English classes. When he came here, he could hardly speak a word of English. He’s a slow learner, Constable. He still struggles with the language. It is not easy for him to speak the English language.’
‘Would you possibly have an address for him?’
‘Just one moment please.’ He went over and spoke briefly to the other men. The man wrote something on a piece of paper, then the Imam returned and handed it to Lynch.
‘Here’s his address, Constable. He’s lodged with a family on Harrow Street. They were refugees a few years ago, but no longer attend our mosque. The husband will be at work, but I know Mrs Habibi will be home.’
At that moment, the doors at the back of the mosque burst opened, and a group of chattering men came in.
‘If that is all, Constable, you’ll have to excuse me please, as I now have to go and get prepared for prayers.’
‘Yes, thank you for your help, sir.’
He gave Lynch a quick nod of his head. ‘Assalamu alaikum,’ he said. With that, the Imam turned and walked off.
‘Have a nice day,’ said Lynch to the fast disappearing figure. He looked at the address and then at his watch and decided to call on Habibi. Before doing that, he’d first give Kirby a call and update her.
****
Lynch drove slowly down Harrow Street — a tired-looking row of red-bricked houses — looking for the number he’d been given; number seventeen. It had started to rain just after he left the mosque and had not let up since. And to top it off, the demister in the car was on the blink again. The mechanic in the police garage had assured him they’d fixed it. That was what he was told when he booked it out that afternoon. ‘Fixed it, my arse.’ he said aloud. He dug into his pocket, pulled out his handkerchief, then leaned forward over the wheel and wiped away at the misted windscreen.
Rain-filled gutters overflowed onto the pavements. Water cascaded from the cars that were parked on both sides of the road. These terraced houses were built for soldiers and their families after the First World War. Cars, then, had not been a priority, so there was no need for a garage. They also saw no need for a front garden either, so the front doors opened directly out onto the pavement. He knew of two more streets like this. All the houses looked the same. Here, in this street, a few had tried to brighten up the paintwork, using yellows, reds, and blues. Some had double glazing installed and put in UPVC front doors. Number seventeen, where Lynch had now pulled up in front of, had all of those. It was clean, looked neat and freshly painted.
He left the shelter of the car and rattled the door knocker.
Standing in the rain, it seemed an age before the door was answered. To Lynch's surprise, the women who answered the door was wearing a pleated skirt and a blouse. On her feet, she wore slippers with pink bows. He’d half expected to see Mrs Habibi dressed from head to toe in a burqa, but it was clear that she had fully embraced the western ways. She looked over his shoulder at the rain, then at him.
‘Yes, can I help you?’ she asked.
He held out his ID to her. ‘Mrs. Habibi? I’m Detective Constable Dave Lynch, Kingsport CID. I was wondering if I could have a word with Mr Hakim. Is he at home?’
‘A word with him?’ Her face showed confusion. ‘He is not here. Is this about the fire in his workplace?’
‘Do you mind if I step on out of this rain?’
She opened the door a little wider and allowed him in. ‘He went to work on Sunday afternoon. He said that there was a container coming in that had to be unloaded. Once that was done, he was going straight up to London to visit his cousin, Hassan Khan, who arrived last week. He came from the same town as Ajmal. He said he would not be back until next weekend. Is it about that poor man who died in that? That was terrible. Surely you don’t suspect Ajmal had anything to do with it?’
She ushered him through into the living room. It was modern and well furnished. She directed him to the settee. He sat.
‘My husband is at work. He’s a bus driver. It was his job back in the old country.’ She noticed the way he looked at her.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,’ he said.
‘I can see you are wondering why I don’t wear traditional garb. That is quite simple. We have adopted your western ways. We have converted to Christianity.’ She paused. ‘Much to the disgust of some of our friends. Many of them now shun us. Would you like some tea or coffee?’ she asked.
‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Habibi, but no thanks. As Ajmal worked there at the farm, we just needed to ask him a few questions. It’s just routine, Mrs Habibi. It’s nothing to worry about. He’s not in any kind of trouble. Would you by any chance have an address for him in London?’
‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. Ajmal said that he would be back in time for work on Monday. I don’t even think he knows about the fire?’
‘Would you have a photo of Mr Hakim, maybe?’ he said hopefully.
‘No. I have not seen one.’
Lynch made a mental note to call immigration first thing in the morning and get a photo of him and also get the address of the cousin. ‘So, can you tell me a bit more about him? I would also like to take a look at his room. He may have left some kind of clue to where in London he’s gone.’
‘His room is private. I’m sorry. I can’t let you do that.’
He decided not to press the matter. ‘Yes, certainly. I understand.’
Later, as he was leaving the house, he handed her his card. ‘Just one other question. Does he own a motor? Does he drive?’
She gave him a puzzled look and shook her head. ‘No. He has no transport. He doesn’t even have a license.’
‘It’s okay, Mrs Habibi. We just need to know these things. Should he get in touch with you before we do, Mrs Habibi, would you please ask him to call me on that number? Thank you.’ She shut the door,
leaving him standing in the rain. He looked up at the sky for a few moments, then walked quickly across the wet pavement towards the car.
****
Carter finished stacking the dishwasher in the kitchen and walked back in the lounge. He picked up the wine glass from the mantel above the fireplace and took a sip. The dishwasher could be heard, working in the background. He stood in front of the log fire and stared into the flames. ‘That was a great meal, love. Did I tell you that?’ He turned and looked at her.
Christine sat on the settee, legs drawn up beneath her, drinking a glass of her favourite white wine.
‘Yes. You did tell me,’ Christine smiled and patted the seat beside her. ‘Come over here and sit down.’ She put her glass down on the coffee table and beckoned him with her finger. The room was warm. Outside, the wind-driven rain hammered against the lounge windows.
‘Looks like being a rough night,’ he said. Picking up his glass, he came over and sat down. Leaning over, he kissed her on the cheek. ‘Oh, did I also tell you that I love you?’
She laughed. ‘Yes, you did, silly man. Three times. Once, while I was dishing up and twice during dessert.
‘Just checking,’ he said, as he leaned over and poured the last of the wine into her glass.
‘Oh, by the way,’ she said. ‘I ran into Marcia Kirby the other day. She tells me her mother is in complete remission. That’s fantastic. It turns out that Dave Lynch’s intended, Maggie, is the oncologist that has been treating her.’