Unbound Ties: When the past unravels, all that’s left is death ... A Gritty Crime Fiction Police Procedural Novel (Gus McGuire Book 7)

by Liz Mistry

  He turned to Sid. ‘I don’t know which pathologist is on duty, but I want McGuire senior here – again, I don’t care what he’s doing – probably golfing if I know him, but he’s to get here. No one else is to go anywhere near that scene till first Professor Carlton has viewed it and second, Dr McGuire. Understood?’

  ‘But, what about my investigators – half of them are upstairs.’

  ‘Get them to process the rooms upstairs. What is there – a bathroom and two bedrooms?’

  Sid, looking like he might begin to object again, inhaled, and then nodded. ‘Yes.’

  Gus looked into the living room, which had a couple of chairs, a large screen TV, and a small table with two chairs at opposite sides. ‘Cellar head kitchen?’ Gus referred to the cramped kitchen area situated at the top of the cellar stairs on some back to back homes.

  Again, Sid nodded.

  ‘Right, plenty for your lot to process, but I don’t want that body removed till they’ve seen it.’

  He motioned for another foot plate, which Sid placed to the side and said to Alice, ‘You stay down here. I’ll go up, have a shifty, take a couple of photos to send to Compo, and then you can look.’ Alice nodded.

  Stepping on the stair plates, Gus approached the body, deliberately schooling himself to avoid looking at her face. He wanted to remain impartial for the time being. Plenty of time to allow his empathy to kick in once he’d absorbed the crime scene. For now, allowing his emotions to intrude, would only dull his observations. The victim was a woman, naked, hanging from a rope that had been attached to a pulley type system in the ceiling, it’s other end attached to the banister. This would have made it quite easy to hoist the victim up, which meant Gus couldn’t be sure whether their killer chose this method purely for ease, or because they lacked the strength to hang her without the pulley system. Whatever, the thought the killer had put into his or her methodology chilled Gus to the bone. It was precise and cold.

  Looking past the woman, not allowing his gaze to linger on her features, Gus studied the pulley system in more detail. It looked like bog-standard one you could pick up in any DIY store and was definitely not the sort of thing most households would have on their ceiling. His gaze drifted back to the floor, before he yelled down to Sid who waited at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Hey, Sid. This pulley – you reckon our killer drilled it in?’

  ‘Well spotted, Gus. Yep, that’s our take on it. We found traces of plaster dust on the floor indicating that the killer took the time to drill a hole for it – devious fucker if you ask me.’

  ‘Hmm, wonder why he chose this specific location. Any of the ceilings in the other rooms would have been equally effective, but this sicko chose the stairs.’

  ‘Could’ve been to give maximum impact when the door at the bottom was opened?’ Alice’s suggestion was valid.

  Gus nodded. ‘Or maybe it was just so he could use the banister to tie the rope to after he’d winched her up there.’

  This would be one of the things that would no doubt become more apparent later in the investigation. Though he was reluctant to put it into words, Gus suspected that, due to the ritualistic positioning of the body, this wouldn’t be a one-off killing.

  The hairs at the back of his neck had stood on end when he’d first seen the way things had been laid out under the victim. Gus’s gaze was drawn to her varnished toenails. Had she had them professionally done for the summer months? The thought saddened him. It was such an everyday sort of activity – one their victim would never do again. Patti, Gus’s ex-girlfriend, used to have her nails professionally done on a regular basis. Something Gus considered a complete waste of money but was wise enough to keep to himself.

  On the carpet beneath the body lay a piece of A4 paper ripped from a sketchpad with a pencil sketch of a woman hanging from a rope. It was a skillful drawing, and Gus wondered why the killer had left it there. It wasn’t of the victim, but it clearly held some significance to the killer. What was particularly interesting was that the items sketched by the unknown artist under the woman were the same as those arranged beneath this body; A candle that had burnt down to the wick, but now he was closer, Gus could identify as being lavender scented, a sprig of lavender, a chocolate biscuit – a digestive with a single bite taken from it and a folded sheet of A4 paper. ‘You looked at the folded paper, Sid?’

  ‘Yep, bossman. Bloody creepy if you ask me.’

  Gus lifted it between his forefinger and thumb, gently opening it. On it was printed the first verse of a children’s nursery rhyme.

  Lavender’s blue, Dilly, dilly

  Lavender’s green

  When I am King, Dilly, dilly

  You shall be Queen

  Gus shook his head. Well, at least the candle and the sprig of lavender now made some sort of warped sense – hopefully Carlton would be able to interpret it.

  When Gus lifted the paper with the rhyme on it, he revealed an ultrasound scan image of a foetus. As he registered what he was seeing, a groan escaped Gus’s lips before he could stop it. It looked like, not only was this woman dead, but she may have been pregnant too. Gus’s fists clenched. What a fucking waste. He looked up at the body that swayed slightly above him. Ignoring the contorted face, he focussed on her eyes – wide and scared, full of anguish. He wondered if her last thoughts had been about her baby. Had she begged to be freed? Fought for her life? Tried to escape? No doubt all, or at least, some of that would become clear at the post-mortem. Heart heavy, Gus made a silent vow to the woman above him. I will catch who did this to you. I will make sure that the person who destroyed your family will pay for what he’s done. Vow made, Gus cleared his mind and once more focussed on the scene around him.

  Craning his neck, he was able to identify the name at the top of the scan – Miranda Brookes. It was dated three days previously. ‘Has anyone ID’d the house owner yet?’

  The same officer he’d spoken to earlier yelled up the stairs. ‘Yes, the house is let to a Miranda —’

  ‘Brookes,’ ended Gus. So, they had an initial ID on their body. Not having anything else to see, he turned and began walking back downstairs to allow Alice to look. ‘Any luck with Carlton or Dr McGuire?’ he asked the officer as he allowed Alice to pass him.

  The officer stood to attention. ‘Both on their way, sir. A car went to collect Professor Carlton. According to DCI Chalmers, he couldn’t miss out on the chance to ride sirens blaring from Leeds to Bradford.’

  That sounded just like Carlton, but Gus’s thoughts were too full of the scene behind him to bother about the professor’s idiosyncrasies right now. As far as he was concerned, the quicker Carlton got here and looked at the clues the killer had left behind, the quicker they could get on. While Alice studied how the scene had been posed, Gus got on the phone to instruct Compo and Taffy. ‘Compo, need you to find whatever you can on the woman we think is our victim, a Miranda Brookes – looks to be mid-twenties at most. Address Princeville Terrace. There was a foetal ultrasound scan, so maybe BRI will be able to provide details. Also can you input these details into HOLMES and that program you developed – ritual, lavender, candle, pregnant, strangling and/or hanging, chocolate biscuit, sketch, painted toenails – I’ve not heard of anything similar locally, but who knows, we might strike gold if this killer started elsewhere and moved to Bradford.’

  When Alice joined him once more downstairs, he raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you reckon?’

  With a slight shake of her head, she grimaced. ‘Apart from that, he’s a sick fucker?’

  ‘Yep, apart from that.’

  ‘Well, my guess is this killer’s only just getting started, and he’s not your common-or-garden kind of killer. Carlton will need to pull it out of the bag this time.’

  Chapter 3

  Bellbrax Psychiatric Facility, Scotland

  She’s watching me; the girl with the dark hair and brown eyes. I don’t like it. It’s putting me off my stride. I want to draw her, but then I’d have to look at her and, if I do
that, she’ll ask me again. I don’t want to answer. I just want to draw. Want to be left alone. Why is she still here, looking at me? Her eyes see right into my heart and it’s not nice. She’s poking about in there. Making it go all fast and bumpy; thurrump, thurrump, thurrumpity, thrump. I feel all sick. Wish she’d go … wish she’d just leave me alone. I like being alone.

  I glance at her – just a quick one – but she notices and smiles. Her teeth are straight and very white, her eyes crinkle up when she smiles, but I still don’t like it. She could be a bad person – she probably is. Most girls are bad. Except maybe Coco. Yes, Coco wasn’t bad. I liked her.

  Now they’re in my head again. They start off quiet, then they get louder till they’re shouting at me.

  ‘Don’t trust her!’

  I must have said it out loud because she frowns and leans closer to me. ‘Did you say something? You know you can speak to me. I’m your friend.’

  ‘Don’t trust her.’ This time I don’t say it out loud. But it’s still banging inside … on my brain. It’s banging on my brain.

  I can smell her perfume. Not lavender, something else, but it’s nice, I suppose. I shake my head and try to draw. If I ignore her, she’ll go. Yes, that’s what to do, I’ll ignore her. But she doesn’t go. She stays there looking at me, staring at me, making me feel sick. This isn’t good.

  The girl’s asking me a question again. I don’t like it. ‘Can you remember what happened to your wife, Rory? Helen, can you tell me about her?’

  Stop it, stop it. I want to yell them words at her, but she might get cross and I don’t like it when people get cross. I bend my head lower so she can’t see my face. I remember Helen. I’ll never forget her. Why would I? She was my world and she was going to have my baby. I turn to a blank page and I can’t stop myself. I choose charcoal because I can smudge it. I don’t want to draw her. Don’t want to see her like that. I press my hands to my temples and try to squeeze the memory away, but it won’t go. It won’t go – not till I’ve finished the drawing.

  My beautiful Helen, hanging from the ceiling, smelling of lavender, my baby a puddle on the floor beneath her. The charcoal flies across the page and there she is – Helen. We had everything and now nothing. I smudge out her private parts, her eyes, her tortured face. My Helen, how did this happen to you too? First my mother and then you. At least now I’m in here it won’t happen again.

  ‘Oh yes it will. You know it will. Of course it will. You can’t stop it!’

  Stop it, stop it, stop it! I want to scream, but my throat’s all dry and the words won’t come out. Helen … Mum.

  ‘She’s trying to trick you. She’ll get you in trouble. You can’t trust her.’

  That’s not the lavender voice – it’s the monster one. It scares me. It makes me want to cry. It makes me want to hide, but no matter where I go, it comes after me and I hate it. The lavender voice doesn’t come very often now. Maybe if I draw Helen or my mum, it will come back. Tell me it’s all right. I wish it would.

  ‘She’s trying to trick you. She’ll get you in trouble. You can’t trust her.’

  The thurrumps are getting faster and the maggots are back in my tummy, like squidgy little creatures eating me up from the inside out. My hand’s all sweaty and it slips, and a big dark pencil mark appears right over my drawing. Right over my mum’s foot. This is bad. Very bad now. I can’t have that. Can’t have a pencil mark on her foot, that shouldn’t be there. No, it shouldn’t, not there. So bad … thurrump, thurrump, thurrump. The maggots wriggle and the colours flash. ‘Ouch’

  ‘You didn’t stop it then. You can’t stop it now. Who will be next?’

  ‘NO!’ I roar the word and the girl flinches, but still the voices come.

  ‘Don’t trust anyone!’

  I want to scream it – let it out because keeping the words inside is hurting me. Thurrump, thurrump, thurrump, bang, bang, bang. I need to get this right. Need to make it right. I reach over for my eraser. Not to call it a rubber – don’t know why. It’s an eraser now. That’s what I call it. I don’t call it a rubber. Thurrump, thurrump, thurrump. Can’t breathe, can’t see.

  ‘Don’t trust her. Don’t trust anyone! Don’t trust yourself.’

  ‘You didn’t stop it then. You can’t stop it now. Who will be next?’

  I fall to the ground and curl up, my hands over my head, my knees digging into my chest as the thurrump, thurrump, thurrump gets faster and the maggots wriggle and the colours explode from the top of my head and I remember…

  ‘Don’t trust her. Don’t trust anyone! Don’t trust yourself.’

  When I wake up, I’m in bed. In my pyjamas, the nice ones that smell clean,

  like being outside. She’s gone – the woman with the dark eyes. I look round my room to make sure. Then I lean over and peer under the bed, but she’s not there. She wouldn’t like it under there, I can tell. No, she wouldn’t hide under the bed, not in her nice clothes. Listening for a second to see if anyone’s in the corridor, I wait. No one’s out there, so I get up and pad across to the wardrobe. My heart’s thurrumping again – just a little bit. Not like before. Holding my breath, I yank it open, but the girl with the dark hair and brown eyes isn’t there either. Only place she could be now is the bathroom. I open the door and peer inside – it’s empty. Satisfied, I head back to bed, pull the over-bed table towards me and begin to draw the girl with the dark hair and brown eyes from memory. Nobody can see what I’m doing, so nobody can tell the voices to come.

  Chapter 4

  Bradford

  Typical Carlton, the man had turned up, giddy as a kid at a fairground, cheeks flushed, specs askew, and wearing a pair of shorts that revealed remarkably pale and quite hairy legs which, due to the presence of his luminous turquoise and lilac trainers, unfortunately drew the eyes. Seemingly, he’d been to the optician because his glasses were new, the frames a bright purple, with yellow stripes – and rivalled any Elton John had ever worn. A bright, multi-coloured face mask in adherence to Covid 19 rules, set his entire ensemble off.

  ‘God’s sake, couldn’t he have covered those things up, for once?’ Gus’s grumpiness was tinged with slight amusement. Nobody, but nobody, would dream of co-ordinating their attire in quite the way that Sebastian Carlton did – not even Gus’s dad, and let’s face it, Fergus McGuire had his moments on the dress front – but no, not even he could rival the small professor from Leeds Trinity University, who was always keen to put his forensic psychology skills to good use for Gus and his team.

  Rated highly by the FBI, Carlton, despite his incongruous appearance, had helped Gus successfully capture various killers in the past. For that, Gus could forgive him almost anything – even the overdose of doughnuts that were bound to take up semi-permanent residence in the incident room back at The Fort. Thinking about The Fort made Gus cringe. His DC, Compo, the computer whizz, and Professor Carlton were as thick as thieves. This unlikely pairing, for some unknown reason, irritated Gus beyond measure and was a source of amusement to both Alice and his other DC Taffy, Talvinder, Bhandir.

  Oblivious to the sniggers of the CSIs who were processing evidence in the garden and alleyway, Carlton, with unseemly eagerness, thrust his peely wally legs inside an oversized crime scene suit, for which Gus was truly thankful. At least those spidery looking legs wouldn’t be a complete distraction. Gus’s smile widened when the shoe covers relegated the obnoxious trainers to a nightmarish memory. Now, Carlton looked more like the professional he was, although Gus suspected that would only last until the psychologist opened his mouth again.

  Alice was talking with the postman who discovered the body. The poor guy had knocked to deliver a parcel, but on getting no reply, which was unusual at this residence, he had peered through the letter box. With the stair door open, the victim’s feet were directly in his line of view. Shocked, but with a presence of mind, he’d promptly called it in. Gus led Carlton along the alleyway and into the garden. Familiar with the way the forensic psychologist work
ed, Gus resigned himself to a lengthy wait outside, but with the sun beating down, this was no real hardship. He watched Carlton climb the stairs to the body, pausing for a minute or so, three steps from the dangling foot. Even from the garden, the sound of the professor sniffing, combined with the way he edged his head closer to the body, told Gus the man had found something. Racking his brain to work out what he might have missed when he’d examined the body, Gus’s frustration built. ‘You found something, Prof?’

  Without turning round, Carlton wafted his hand in Gus’s direction, but didn’t reply. Bloody nuisance. Wouldn’t damn well harm him to let me in on his big discovery. Instead, Carlton stretched onto his tiptoes and called out something to the CSIs who were still working on the upstairs room. Unable to hear Carlton’s words, irritation made Gus exhale loudly. If he hadn’t been at a crime scene, he’d have been tempted to kick the fence, wishing it was Carlton’s head. Despite being well aware of all the other man’s annoyances and having given himself a little pep talk about not reacting to every little grievance before Carlton arrived, Gus couldn’t contain his irritation. He was conscious that Carlton had created a persona for himself – that of the slightly batty, unconventional profiler. If he wasn’t so bloody good at his job, Gus would have given him short shrift. The point was, that despite everything, he came up with the goods, although Gus wished he’d adapt to working more collaboratively. Instead, Carlton often kept his own counsel – leaving Gus in the dark – till he’d worked a problem through and come up with a solution. Even when Gus pointed out that sharing his suspicions with the team might actually be beneficial and could perhaps speed things up, he resolutely kept his own counsel until he felt sure his contribution was sound.

  Now what was the man doing? Ready to throw his toys out of the pram and hating himself for feeling so juvenile, Gus watched helplessly as Carlton, his arse obscuring Gus’s field of vision, bent over to study the items beneath the body. He was still sniffing – short little sniff, sniff, sniffs, like a bloody lapdog and Gus began to wonder if it was less to do with some clue or other and more to do with allergies or a summer cold. Sniff, sniff, sniff – it continued and Gus hoped to hell that his profiler wasn’t dripping all over the evidence, which had yet to be tagged and bagged.