Suspended Retribution

by Rob Ashman

  4

  ‘Today’s the day,’ Kray sang the words over and over as she drove to Victoria Hospital. This was despite having given herself a stiff talking to while waiting at a set of traffic lights and telling herself to calm down and get a grip. Even so, the knot of expectation in her stomach would not go away.

  She checked the clock on the dashboard, 9am exactly. At this precise time, three days ago, she had been sitting in front of an interview panel being put through her paces for the role of Detective Chief Inspector. ACC Mary Quade was chairing the panel which was a mixed blessing because Quade flipped between being Kray’s number one fan one day - thinking she was the best thing to happen to Lancashire force since Curry Fridays - to hating her guts the next, and wanting to destroy her career. The problem was, it was never clear to Kray which ACC Quade would show up for work.

  All the candidates had been through the selection board on the same day. It was a prestigious position and the candidate list was long. DI Dan Bagley was one of them. The Mancunian tosser from Greater Manchester Police who Quade had drafted in to ‘support’ the Palmer case. Though in Kray’s mind she substituted the word ‘support’ for the more appropriate phrase of ‘almost fucked up’.

  Kray had performed well during the hour-long grilling and had flown through the In-Tray exercise and the presentation. At one point she had to steel herself away from the mess of pens and pencils laying on the desk. Her OCD went into orbit … everyone knows pens go on one side and pencils on the other. She resisted the temptation to arrange them in their rightful place, blanked out her anxiety and ploughed on. After all, she was the star of the show, having cracked two serial killer cases in a year, she was the woman in form. Though she had to admit it was a challenge to speak for twenty minutes on the topic ‘Delivering effective policing in an environment of austerity.’ Despite her reservations they had appeared impressed with what she had to say. She was quietly confident the appointment would go her way but the nerves would not let her anxieties rest.

  Kray parked up and entered the sprawling building. She didn’t bother with the lift, choosing instead to bound up the stairs to the landing with the sign hanging above the corridor that read: Mortuary, Bereavement Office and Pathology.

  On reading the sign another image burst into her head. A dishy, blond haired, Home Office pathologist with a liking for wearing waistcoats and trousers that fitted where they touched. The prospect of seeing Dr Christopher Millican was definitely an added bonus when having to view a dead body at this time of the morning.

  Kray reached the mortuary and pulled on her protective gear, growling under her breath at the white coverall that swamped her small frame.

  She rolled her eyes to the ceiling as she grabbed hold of a yard of material and pulled it away from her body. I’m meeting Doctor Ding-dong and I look like a child wearing her father’s overalls.

  She berated herself. What the hell difference does it make what I look like? It’s not as if I’m interested in him.

  It was a lie Kray had told herself every day since she had joined him for a coffee, closely followed by an after-work glass of wine at his favourite bar. It had happened the day after she solved the Palmer case and she put it down to an ‘emotional blip’. She had taken the initiative and called him suggesting they met up. He had been the perfect gentleman, listening politely as she unburdened herself while ensuring her glass was never empty. He was a good listener and an even better barman.

  But the thing she remembered most was giggling. She could not recall when she had laughed so much in the company of another person. That is since Joe died, of course. She had laughed so much her jaw ached and went home, on her own, feeling warm and fuzzy.

  The next morning she’d been racked with guilt, a feeling that had stayed with her ever since. She had never been unfaithful to Joe but reckoned if she had, this is what it would feel like. A weird position to take as his ashes were buried in a cemetery.

  Millican had called several times following their night out but she had put him off with lame excuses. He stopped calling after a while. This was the first time they had met since that fateful evening. For a woman who was convinced she didn’t care, she had butterflies in her stomach the size of condors.

  Kray pushed open the door and inhaled the sickly smell of rotting chicken and formaldehyde. The mortuary was shiny and new, courtesy of an injection of funds into the Victoria Teaching Hospital. The place was bright and clinical with three stainless steel tables lined down the centre of the room. Each table had a drain at one end and metal scales hung from the ceiling. Hoses and nozzles were connected to the frames and a set of gleaming steel work surfaces and sinks ran around the walls.

  Doctor Ding-dong was huddled over a dish containing what looked like chopped liver. He looked up, his eyes flashed a warm ‘Hello’ long before his mouth uttered a word.

  ‘Hey, Roz, how are you doing?’

  ‘I’m fine thanks,’ she replied, trying hard not to respond too eagerly. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Good.’ He gave her his winning smile again, she chose instead to look at the liver in the silver container. The air between them crackled with unsaid conversation.

  ‘What have we got?’ She broke the silence, conscious that her cheeks were beginning to flush pink.

  Millican snapped into work mode. ‘James Arthur Cadwell, twenty-eight years of age, was admitted around half past midnight.’ He tugged at the blue sheet covering the corpse and rolled it down to waist level. The signature Y-shaped scar stood proud on his chest.

  ‘Shit,’ Kray blurted out.

  ‘Yeah, shit, exactly. Multiple blunt force trauma to the head, crushed rib cage, fractured pelvis, a collapsed lung, ruptured spleen, broken radius and ulnar, broken scapular … the list goes on. He died in ICU from massive internal haemorrhaging. His chances of survival when he was admitted were slim. The file says suspected hit and run?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the original line of inquiry, but I think this is a murder investigation.’ Kray cast her eyes over the broken body lying on the slab.

  ‘His injuries are more consistent with being run over by a fleet of lorries rather than a single vehicle.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. The blood spatter at the scene was extensive, much more than you would expect from a car and pedestrian collision. My view is the driver hit the victim, then reversed over him and finished off by running him over a third time.’

  ‘That would do it. Under normal circumstances the victim would have primary impact wounds where the vehicle strikes them, usually the lower body and head. In the case of James Cadwell there are so many impact areas it’s impossible to give you a sequence of his injuries.’

  ‘Anything else that I should know about?’

  ‘He had a high level of alcohol in his blood. It will all be in the report.’

  ‘How much alcohol?’

  ‘His blood alcohol concentration was point one-five percent.’

  ‘What’s that in old money?’

  ‘He was well tanked up. Given his age and weight I would say he’d had seven or eight pints?’

  ‘Thank you for rushing this through, I needed to get an early confirmation on our thoughts.’

  ‘That’s what we’re here for.’

  Krays phone buzzed in her pocket. It was Tavener.

  ‘Yes I can be there in twenty minutes.’ She hung up. ‘Sorry, I have to run.’

  ‘Okay, let me know if you need anything else.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Roz, before you go—’

  ‘Sorry I have to dash.’ She cut him off knowing full well what was coming next.

  5

  I’m standing by the coffee machine when I overhear the news about Jimmy Cadwell.

  ‘Hit and run, they reckon. He died in hospital from his injuries.’

  I try to keep my emotions in check and not allow my elation to shine through.

  ‘CID are carrying out an investigation.’

  I keep my eyes glued
to the floor.

  In the absence of being able to race around the office with my arms stretched out and my jumper pulled over my head, I decide to celebrate with a Mochaccino instead of my usual Americano with milk.

  I sip the coffee as I walk back to my desk. It tastes extra good.

  I have been in work since seven-thirty this morning. We have a regular start time of eight-thirty but the first hour of my day is the most productive. Not because the phone is silent, or that we don’t have meetings, not even because I’m the only one in the office at that time; it is the most productive hour of the day because at seven-thirty the case files get delivered.

  You would think in this day and age the documentation would be processed electronically, but not when you’re dealing with the courts system. It’s paper, paper, paper all the way. Some old habits take generations to die off.

  An early morning start provides the opportunity to sift through the incoming cases and pull out the ones that interest me the most.

  I’ve been working here now for little over a year and it suits me down to the ground. It gives structure to my life and keeps me out of the pubs during the day. It also pays me a salary, that I can live on, which means I don’t have to draw on my army pension. But the most important facet of the job is it makes me feel alive. I return to my desk with my coffee.

  It’s almost lunchtime and I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my body. At twelve-noon exactly the office empties and I am left alone. To everyone else working here I am the guy who keeps himself to himself, the one who chooses not to go to lunch with his co-workers and the man who comes in early when he knows he doesn’t get paid for it. Oh, and he fought in Afghanistan or somewhere. The man who’s a little odd.

  I pull the buff coloured file from the pile and open it up. My heart is thumping with giddy expectation. I flick through the paperwork.

  Boom! I knew it. I fucking knew it.

  This case had all the hallmarks of the perfect storm. My pulse rate spikes as I consume the transcripts and file documents. The more I read the more a knot of anger builds in my stomach. I feel beads of cold sweat on the back of my neck.

  I fought for my country but I never fought for this. The thought ricochets around my head.

  I put my life on the line to protect the people of our country from the tyranny of rogue states that wanted to harm our way of life. I was injured in the pursuit of delivering that aim. I lost brothers in the pursuit of delivering that aim. And while I was being shot at, blown up and having my head screwed, the powers that be in this country were putting those very same people at risk by their own dereliction of duty. Through their own liberal incompetence, they were putting those very same people who I swore to protect in harm’s way.

  I read on.

  ‘The victim has an above average interest in sex for a child of his age.’ What the fuck! The key word of that sentence is child.

  My pulse hits the roof when I read: ‘So it has to be said that in this case the child contributed to his own abuse.’ My fists are balled tight under the desk.

  I close the file and cast my eyes to the ceiling. What was the point?

  The words jump off the page. My breathing becomes erratic.

  ‘The defendant is of below average intelligence for someone of her age.’

  What was the point of all that suffering if those in power don’t play their part to protect people? We were over there busting a gut and having bits blown off us when all the while the bad guys in our towns and cities are being allowed to run riot.

  I bang my fists into the underside of the desk and stand up.

  This one is perfect.

  She’s on the list!

  6

  It was the day I looked a man in the eye, smiled, then blew his brains out.

  The mortar shell left a three-feet wide crater where the end of the wall used to be. The explosion spewed stone and dirt in all directions, throwing us sideways in the blast.

  ‘Get the fuck out of here!’ Jono levered himself up on his good leg and began firing over the top. ‘Go! Go!’ he screamed. ‘I’ll lay down cover while you get the truck.’

  I flashed a look at Pat.

  ‘I’m staying with you,’ Bootleg said checking his weapon.

  ‘No, we all have to get out of here,’ I yelled. ‘They have the range with that mortar and the next one will be right on top of us. We all go, now!’

  Jono thought for a second. ‘You go. I’ll slow you down.’

  I hooked his arm across my shoulder and heaved him to a crouching position.

  ‘Yeah right.’ I plunged a vial of morphine into his leg. ‘On three.’

  Pat counted down with his fingers and sprinted from behind the wall, crabbing across the dustbowl to the nearest house, firing as he went. A torrent of rounds slammed into the dirt around him. Me and Bootleg bolted into the open with Jono slung between us.

  It was the longest fifty feet of my life.

  Jono tried to hop but we were moving too fast. He put his weight onto his shattered leg and yelped in pain. By the half-way point we were half dragging, half carrying him. The sand around us seemed to come alive with shells bursting against the ground.

  Pat reached the corner of the first house just as there was an almighty bang behind us. The wall disintegrated, sending rubble spewing into the air. A heavy stone caught Bootleg in the middle of his back and all three of us crashed to the floor. We scrabbled around trying to right ourselves.

  Out of nowhere Pat appeared, gripped Jono by the back of his collar and hauled him along the floor. I struggled to my feet, picked up the guns and threw myself behind the cover of the house, Bootleg landing on top of me. How the hell they missed us I will never know.

  ‘We gotta get one of those vehicles,’ Pat said adjusting the tourniquet around Jono’s leg.

  I could see the pearl white, jagged edge of his shin bone protruding through his trousers. He was bleeding out. His blood soaking into the earth.

  ‘They’ll hit these buildings next, we need to move fast.’

  We took a moment to catch our breath. The vehicles were parked about thirty yards away.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Bootleg and Pat heaved Jono to his feet and manhandled him to the far corner. I held up my hand for them to stop.

  ‘It’s too far. They will pick us off, we won’t make it. I’ll go get the vehicle and bring it here. It’s the best way.’

  Before they had a chance to protest I darted from behind the house, keeping low, zig-zagging my way over the open space. My heart was in my mouth. I was blowing hard and could feel dust choking my throat. There was a second of glorious silence which seemed to last forever, I was covering the ground fast, closing the distance to the trucks. Then there was a terrifying cacophony of gunfire. The ground around me erupted, rounds kicking up the sand. My legs pumped as I hurtled towards the Jackal. I glanced up to see Donk slumped over the big gun.

  I skidded feet first under the vehicle like a baseball player sliding to first base. My breath was ragged and I was hyperventilating, my blood thumped a deafening rhythm in my temples. I tried to calm down and take stock.

  Then I heard a different noise, it was the sound of people shouting. I swivelled around on my belly trying to locate the voices. I peered out from under the truck to see five insurgents racing down the hillside toward the village.

  ‘Shit!’

  I turned and clawed myself out, climbing up the side of the Jackal. I grabbed Donk with both hands and heaved his bloodied body to one side. The Taliban fighters were two hundred yards away and closing fast. I crouched behind the gun, took hold of the grips and swung the long barrel towards them. The rapid bang-bang-bang of the M2 ensured they got no further. The belt fed smoothly through the chamber and with a few short bursts they were cut down. I checked the mountainous terrain for others – all clear. But I knew more would be coming soon.

  I heard the ping of a mortar shell being launched and saw two men silhouetted on a ridge. A scho
olboy error.

  I held my breath. Where the fuck was it going to land?

  I crouched down expecting the worse.

  The shell overshot the houses and exploded ten yards away from where the other three were hunkered down. A near miss. They wouldn’t make that mistake a second time. I took aim and began emptying the magazine box. At six hundred rounds a minute, the ridge exploded as the bullets tore up the ground, shredding everything in its path. I paused to get my bearings and squeezed again. Another ten second salvo and I stopped. The top of the ridge was empty.

  I dropped down into the driver’s seat and cranked over the engine. It wouldn’t start. I tried again. The big diesel chugged but refused to fire. I slammed my hands into the wheel and leapt from the cab.

  I’m not sure who was more surprised – me or the middle-aged man who was crouched at the side of the Jackal. He jumped to his feet as my boots hit the dirt, he was so close I could smell the stink of his body odour. He was dressed in dark coloured robes and his heavily weathered face stared at me, wide eyed, from beneath his Peshawari cap. But more importantly he was carrying a battered AK-47.

  I reckon I was still suffering from the bang to the head because he reacted first, lifting his weapon and yanking the trigger.

  Click

  That’s twice today.

  The gun jammed. He looked down at his rifle and then at me.

  In that split second our eyes locked. He wasn’t scared, his face told a story of being angry and confused. Why the hell doesn’t this thing work? I half expected him to hand me the gun to see if I could fix it.

  I smiled back at him, with a sympathetic grin that said that’s gotta be tough.

  The muzzle of my rifle kicked up as I fired from the hip. The bullet entered under his jaw bone and blew out the back of his head.

  7

  ‘This is good work, Duncan,’ Kray said negotiating a sharp bend that took them into a new housing estate.