Blood On the Wall

T
he body hung like a sack of potatoes; the ankles lashed together with strong electrical wire, tied round and round the thick branch of the tree. The head hung
downwards
, the whole body swaying slightly in the light breeze. The sounds of night echoed across the ancient stones, muffled slightly by the trees.

Here, this is the place where there was fire and sword, where they died in their thousands. Yet who remembers me?

The gloved hand grasped the knife, held the handle firmly, watched the light of the moon shining through the trees glint as it caught the blade. A good blade, a wide blade, strong, sharp as any razor, honed so fine it could cut through skin, muscle and bone with one blow. But there was no need for force now, the first sacrifice had been made; now there was just the second act.

The other gloved hand took hold of the hair, hanging slack down from the head, and gently turned the body. The sightless eyes gazed blankly, a trickle of blood running down the face from one nostril and into the open eyes, the blood already drying and crusting.

The knife was placed against the neck, almost loving in its caress. A movement, an incision, and suddenly the body jerked as if it had come back to life again as the blood gushed out in a waterfall of black.

It was over almost too quickly, but tonight, here in the open, it would be foolish to take chances. Now there was just the head, that precious object, giver of life, home of the brain, seat of the soul.

The knife cut across the front of the throat, biting deeply, severing the windpipe and the food canal in one cut. A second cut, even deeper, and the head dropped back, hanging now by the spinal cords at the neck. Even in the semi-darkness, the large wound gaped like a second open mouth.

A third cut across the back of the neck with practised ease, slicing through bone, through marrow, and the head dropped, suspended now by just a muscle at each side of the neck.

The muscles, with no brain to guide them, no nervous system to tell them to tighten, stretched.

The blade flash once, then twice, and with a dull and heavy thud the head came away and hit the ground.

A
ndreas Georgiou sat on the bench at the end of Bowness on Solway and looked out over the Solway Firth. It was low tide with a few hours still on the ebb before it turned back to flood, and the haaf-netters were on their way out, their huge fishing frames balanced on their shoulders, the nets dangling beneath, their canvas bags for their catch slung over their backs.

Haaf-netting had been a way of life here on the Solway for a thousand years, ever since the Vikings had first
introduced
it. That’s what his friends in the village told him, so it must be true. The fishermen stood up to their chests in the channels of the Solway, holding the long wooden beam that held the net, waiting for the salmon and trout to come past them on their way out to the Irish Sea.

There were just a handful of haaf-netters now; mainly men in their forties and fifties. Very few youngsters were taking it up. It was hard, standing to chest-height for up to four hours in water that swirled and raced as the currents pushed along the channels. It could be dangerous: the sands and mud-flats shifted constantly. Where yesterday the mud
was firm under a boot, today it could be quicksand, dragging a man down. There were things hidden in the mud of the Solway: the carcasses of cattle and horses that had been sucked down, tractors that had disappeared long ago. And there were said to be the bodies of children beneath the mud, sucked down by the moving sands while they played, unsuspecting that the tide had turned.

The Solway could be beautiful and cruel at the same time. The tide here was one of the fastest in the British Isles, rolling in at thirty miles an hour. If you were caught on the sands in the middle of the Solway as the tide rushed in, you had no chance. A man wearing heavy rubber waders couldn’t run across mud and through sinking quicksands at a speed fast enough to escape. That’s why the haaf-netters fished on the ebb. Men who fished on a flood tide stayed close by the shore.

Georgiou’s mobile phone rang, the sudden noise cutting through the peace and quiet and he cursed himself for leaving it switched on. Force of habit.

He checked the number displayed on the screen. It wasn’t one he recognised.

‘Georgiou.’

‘Ted Armstrong.’

Georgiou was surprised. Ted Armstrong. The chairman of the Police Authority.

‘Where are you?’ came Armstrong’s voice. There was something wrong with it, a slur in the words, too many catches of breath. It sounded as if Armstrong was forcing out the words through clenched teeth, forcing himself to talk.

‘Why?’ asked Georgiou.

‘I’m outside your house,’ said Armstrong. ‘I need to see you. Now.’

Georgiou felt annoyed. He had never found it easy to take orders from people who he knew had less brains than he did. Now he had no need to even pretend to be polite to those on the Police Authority who were trying to kick him out of the job he loved. Up till twenty-four hours ago he’d been Detective Inspector Georgiou. Now he was suspended for ‘alleged brutality’, and the word was he wouldn’t be getting back. Early retirement. At thirty-four years of age. The bastards.

‘I’m busy,’ he said.

There was another sound, a sniffling and a cough, and Georgiou realised with a shock that Armstrong was crying.

‘Please …’ sobbed Armstrong. ‘I have to see you. I’m begging you. It’s my daughter.’

Kids, thought Georgiou bitterly. They get you coming and going.

‘I’m on my way,’ he said.

He cut the connection on his mobile and began to walk up the hill back into the village.

Georgiou found Ted Armstrong sitting in his car outside his front door. Armstrong’s car was an expensive-looking Audi, fitting for a rich and successful businessman who liked to show off his wealth. Another reason why Georgiou couldn’t stand the man. But it was hard to keep up his feelings of dislike when Armstrong was so obviously in distress. Armstrong got out of his car as he saw Georgiou approach. He had stopped crying, but his eyes were red from weeping
and his face was deathly white.

‘Tamara’s been killed,’ he said. ‘The bastard cut …’ And then Armstrong stopped and screwed his eyes up, took deep breaths.

‘Let’s go inside,’ said Georgiou.

Once indoors, Georgiou fixed Armstrong a whisky. He looked like he needed something stronger than tea or coffee.

Georgiou waited for Armstrong to recover himself. Armstrong sat perched on the edge of the settee in Georgiou’s living room, sipping at the whisky.

‘Tamara was murdered last night,’ he said at last, doing his best to keep his voice steady. ‘Her body was found early this morning, hanging from a tree in Stanwix. Her head was missing.’

Another one, thought Georgiou. There had been a similar murder about a month before, just across the border at Haltwhistle in Northumberland. The headless body of a woman found hanging inside a shed near the railway line

‘Why have you come to see me?’ he asked.

‘I want you to find the maniac who did it.’

Georgiou shook his head.

‘That’s a job for the police. You suspended me, remember.’

‘That wasn’t my fault!’ blurted out Armstrong. ‘I voted to keep you in. It was the rest of them. That councillor who’s always going on about civil liberties. Maitland. You did yourself no good when you beat up that kid …’

‘He was not a kid, he was seventeen, and I was restraining him while he resisted arrest. He had a screwdriver, for God’s sake!’

‘He said he was an electrician, it was a tool of his trade.’

‘An electrician who hadn’t worked for six months. What sort of trade is that?’

‘That’s beside the point …’

‘No, it is exactly the point. You hire and fire the police, you get the police you choose. You chose not to have me. But now it suits you …’

‘Andreas, this is my daughter! She was murdered last night by some lunatic … some maniac! He cut her head off!’

‘And what can I do? I’ve been suspended.’

‘Please. I know I can get your suspension overturned. I’ve already been on to some of the others on the Police Authority, seeing what I can do. The truth is that most of the so-called detectives at HQ couldn’t find their own arses!’

‘There are plenty of good coppers there, if you give them a chance to do their job. DS Tennyson, DS Seward—’

‘I need you for this!’ cut in Armstrong. ‘You can find him.’

Armstrong looked at Georgiou, his eyes bloodshot red with tears and pain.

‘Please,’ he begged. ‘Please. She was all I had.’

A
fter Armstrong had gone, Georgiou switched on his computer and checked the internet news. His first instinct had been to phone the station, talk to Mac Tennyson or Debby Seward to find out the facts, but he was still suspended. They’d talk to him, but they wouldn’t be able to give him the information he needed, not without putting themselves in trouble. Armstrong was in no fit state at the moment to give him all the details, so instead he’d have to find out the same way any other member of the public would.

Reading the news reports, he was able to piece the picture together.

Tamara Armstrong was eighteen years old. She’d finished at sixth form and was intending to go to university to study law when the new academic year started. She’d been out with some friends the previous night in Carlisle, and had told her friends she was going to walk home.

At six o’clock in the morning her body had been found hanging upside-down from a tree in a small park near Stanwix by a man walking his dog. Her head was missing. The reports simply said that police were investigating.

It was just like the other murder. Both times the heads had been taken, and neither had been found since. Why? He needed to get a look at the file on Tamara’s murder, compare the details with the one in Northumberland, but there was no chance of that while he was suspended. One thing was sure, he wasn’t going to be kicked out of the force without a fight. If Georgiou was anything, it was stubborn. It came from being an outsider: half-Greek, half-English.

His mother, Mary, had been a Londoner. His father had been Othonas Georgiou, a Greek-Cypriot waiter she’d met and fallen in love with and married. A year later, soon after young Andreas had been born in north London, Othonas Georgiou had disappeared with the attractive lady cashier from the restaurant where they both worked. The young Andreas’s mother had been shocked, but after the initial shock, she decided that Othonas would come back to her.

Of course, he never did. Where he and his cashier had gone, no one seemed to know. The most likely place seemed to be Cyprus, or perhaps Greece. But there was no word from his father, or his father’s family, ever again. It was as if the shame had put up a barrier between his father’s family in Nicosia and his mother in England, and for some reason his father’s family blamed Georgiou’s mother for the marital break-up. All that Georgiou had of his father was a photograph taken with his mother soon after they had been married.

When he had been growing up, having a Greek name and an English accent hadn’t been a problem for young Andreas. In the part of London where he came from, Camden Town, there were plenty of children of different nationalities.

The problems had surfaced when he left school and decided to make a career in the police. The interview board had looked at his name and raised questions: was he a British national? Did he have a British passport? Did he have any political allegiances with Greek organisations? Did he have a negative attitude towards Turkey and Turkish people?

At first Georgiou had thought these attitudes were amusing. After all, he was English, born in England, spoke English, and had never been to either Cyprus or Greece in his life. But then, when these doubts about him persisted, even after he had joined the force, he became angry. He complained about the way he was viewed, as some kind of Middle-Eastern subversive just because of his name. Someone suggested, possibly with the best of intentions, that he might not suffer these problems if he anglicized his name, became Andrew George, for example.

Georgiou had rejected the suggestion out of hand. Why should he change his name? It wouldn’t make any difference to the person he was. ‘No,’ his adviser had said, ‘but it will make a difference to how people think of you before they meet you.’

It was true. If he had an appointment with anyone, as soon as they saw his name, Andreas Georgiou, they expected someone like Zorba the bloody Greek, moustached and dancing and smashing china plates and drinking ouzo. Instead, they were greeted by this very self-contained English detective inspector, quiet, thoughtful, slightly reserved. The antithesis of Zorba.

Georgiou was twenty-two years old when his mother
died, still waiting for Othonas to return. After the funeral, Georgiou had gone on holiday to Cyprus and Greece, curious to get a glimpse of his father’s heritage. Cyprus had depressed him, with the naked tribal hatred between the Greeks in the south and the Turks in the north. In fact he hadn’t even been allowed into the north of the island, despite having a British passport, purely because of his Greek name.

Greece itself hadn’t been much better. The native Greeks seemed suspicious of him because he had a Greek name but his manner and speech were so obviously English. He didn’t fit in Greece. And, because of his name, he didn’t really fit into the Englishness of the police force. But he had persisted in his ambition, worked hard, proved himself. Progressed from uniform to detective, and worked his way up to inspector, although he’d had to leave London and come to Cumbria to get the promotion. He guessed even in Cumbria, inspector would be as high as he would go. To the people at the very top, to those who made the appointments, he would still be ‘the Greek’. The outsider.

To hell with them all. He liked being an outsider. It gave him an edge with everyone. No one could fit him into a comfortable pigeonhole. Except one: husband of Susannah, the most comfortable pigeonhole he’d ever known. Ten years they’d had together, and now she was gone. Dead. And once more, he was ‘the Greek’. On his own.

He picked up the photograph of her on the mantelpiece and looked down at her, smiling up at him. If only she was still smiling up at him. But all good things die, that’s what they say. Why? So many questions, and only stupid answers.

He thought about the reason he’d been suspended, and anger rose up in him again.

There had been a series of attacks on elderly women on the Raffles estate in Carlisle: straightforward muggings, their bags snatched and knocked to the ground if they resisted. A whisper had given one of Georgiou’s snouts the name of the mugger: seventeen-year-old Ian Parks, who lived with his parents and sisters on the estate. The Parks family had a reputation as trouble: their front garden was littered with rubbish, bits of old cars, old scrap metal. Any attempts by the council to get them to clean it up had met with a torrent of verbal abuse, and in one case threats of violence. But the council worker who’d been threatened had refused to press charges. Too scared, thought Georgiou.

Ian Parks had started to train as an electrician when he was sixteen, but had dropped out and now joined the rest of the family in doing little except slouching in front of the TV during the day and annoying the neighbours. It was rumoured he had a drugs problem. This information came as no surprise to Georgiou – Parks’s parents were virtually both alcoholics. If the addiction gene wasn’t genetic, it was certainly an influence on Ian Parks’s growing up. Georgiou found it hard to understand why on earth Councillor Maitland was such a strong supporter of the Parks family.

All the muggings had taken place at around half past six, when it was still broad daylight. So Georgiou had set up a watch on the Parkses’ house from an unmarked car from 6.15 p.m., and assigned two of his DCs, Richard Little and Kirsty Taggart, to keep the house under observation from a discreet distance.

For the first three days nothing out of the ordinary happened. Ian Parks and his sisters had come out of the house and gone to the local shop, and then come back again. Little and Taggart had taken turns to follow him.

On the fourth day, Little phoned, claiming he had flu. Georgiou suspected it was just a bad cold: Little was a prissy soul and a bit of a hypochondriac. He had been going to put another of his detectives on the case, but in the end decided he’d do the shift with Taggart himself. He had little else to do with his life except work, ever since Susannah had died.

At 6.40 that evening Ian Parks came out of his house and headed in the direction of the local shopping precinct. Georgiou followed on foot, with Taggart following in the car. As Parks neared the precinct, he suddenly made for an old lady who was coming back from the shops. He grabbed the handbag she was carrying and pulled at it, throwing the old lady off her balance. The woman hung on to the strap of her bag, but Parks tugged harder at it and pulled her over. Georgiou was already breaking into a run.

Parks heard the sound of running footsteps, turned and saw Georgiou heading for him, and immediately let go of the woman’s bag and ran for it. Taggart appeared in the car, the driver’s window rolled down, and Georgiou pointed at the fallen woman and shouted ‘Look after her!’ as he ran off in pursuit of Parks.

Parks may have been younger than Georgiou, but his lifestyle meant he wasn’t as fit, and Georgiou was soon catching up with him. Parks suddenly stopped and whirled round, pulling a screwdriver out of his pocket as he did so, and holding it menacingly towards Georgiou.

‘Back off!’ yelled Parks. He looked panicky.

Georgiou took a step forward, and Parks thrust at him with the screwdriver. Georgiou swayed aside from it and caught Parks’s wrist, twisted it, and then punched Parks hard in the face with his other fist.

Parks staggered, and then Georgiou twisted his arm, forcing him down onto his knees, his face close to the pavement. Blood dripped from Parks’s nose and he dropped the screwdriver.

‘I am arresting you for assault with intent to commit a theft,’ said Georgiou. ‘You have the right to remain silent, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence.’

With that Georgiou jerked Parks back to his feet, and then handcuffed him.

‘I didn’t do nuffin’!’ protested Parks.

‘In that case you’ve got nothing to worry about,’ grunted Georgiou. He used his handkerchief to pick the screwdriver up from the ground, put it in his pocket, and then hauled Parks in the direction of the car.

Within minutes word of the arrest had spread around the estate, and within an hour Parks’s father had put in an appearance at the police station, demanding to see his son. Georgiou had dealt with Mr Parks himself, and had found him to be a loud-mouthed, blustering bully who had tried to shout Georgiou into releasing Ian Parks. Georgiou refused, advising Mr Parks that Ian Parks was under arrest.

Two hours later Mr Parks returned, this time accompanied by Councillor John Maitland, who demanded to know what was going on. Georgiou told Maitland that a
case was under investigation and a report would be issued in due time.

An hour later, as Georgiou was signing off and about to go home, a solicitor appeared who said he had been ordered to act for Ian Parks and demanded that he see his client. Georgiou assumed that the solicitor had been brought in by Maitland.

The solicitor spent time with Ian Parks, and then left.

Parks was held overnight in the cells, and when he appeared in the magistrates court the next day, the solicitor turned the whole event round: his client, he claimed, had been offering to help Mrs Izmir, the old lady, with her shopping, when a man had appeared who seemed very threatening. Because there had been a lot of muggings on the estate recently, Ian Parks assumed the man was a mugger who was intending to rob him, and so Parks ran away. The man chased after him. At no time did the man identify himself as a police officer. The man caught him and then assaulted him very badly. The solicitor said he would be producing a statement from the old lady concerned to confirm that the young lad had offered to help her with her shopping, and that she had been shocked when the man had run towards them. The solicitor suggested that the whole case be dropped, but the Crown Prosecution Service, acting on the advice of the police, said they intended to proceed with the case against Ian Parks. The solicitor asked for bail for his client while the defence was prepared. Bail was granted and Parks was released.

Later, Mrs Izmir had been brought to the station by Mr Parks to make a statement confirming that Ian had offered
to carry her shopping on the occasion in question, and that she had not been mugged. According to the desk sergeant who met them when they came in, and DC Debby Seward who had taken Mrs Izmir’s statement, the old lady looked terrified. There was no doubt at all in Georgiou’s mind that she had been threatened by Parks.

However, Georgiou had what he believed was an ace up his sleeve: the statement that Mrs Izmir had made to Kirsty Taggart immediately after the assault. It was one of the things that Georgiou insisted on with his team: ‘Get a statement immediately before they have time to forget things or make things up. Get it while things are still fresh in their mind.’

So Kirsty Taggart had got a signed statement from Mrs Izmir stating that Ian Parks had tried to pull her handbag from her, and in doing it had pulled her over so that she fell to the ground. Parks had then run off when a man ran towards them.

It should have been enough to settle the case, but it wasn’t. The Parks family and Councillor Maitland had taken the story to the local press, accusing Georgiou of police brutality on an innocent boy, and of putting pressure on the witness to make a false statement. The fact that Maitland was on the Police Authority gave him more clout, and he used it. Before Georgiou knew what was happening, Maitland had tabled a motion for the Police Authority asking that Georgiou be suspended until a full investigation of the events had been carried out.

Georgiou and his team thought the motion would be easily dismissed. After all, he had Mrs Izmir’s statement.
But he had no witnesses to back him up. Kirsty Taggart had stayed with Mrs Izmir to help her recover and take her statement. However, there were witnesses who had seen Georgiou grab Parks by the arm, punch him, and force him to the ground. None of them mentioned anything about seeing Parks holding a screwdriver. Parks claimed it had fallen from his pocket when Georgiou forced him to the ground. The reason he had a screwdriver in his pocket, he said, was because he had been fixing an electrical socket at home and had put the screwdriver there afterwards, a story backed up by his parents.