Dead Wrong (7 page)

“We don’t have an assault any more, we have a full blown murder on our hands,” he told Ruth quietly. “When he feels up to it, I want Wilfred interviewed formally, and someone will have to go and see Mrs Stanley.”

“I can go.” Ruth volunteered. “I’ll get their statements tomorrow, and bring them back to the station.”

Chapter 6

Calladine had said five, but it was way past seven by the time the team reassembled in the main office, which had now become the incident room. He yawned, checking his watch.

“Make sure a PC is keeping an eye on that flat. I want to know the minute Donna gets home. I don’t care what time it is. I’ll speak to her myself. Any joy with the CCTV?”

Imogen Goode shook her head and sighed. She’d spent most of the day with her eyes glued to the damned screen, but she didn’t know what she was looking for. What constituted suspicious behaviour around here? Watching the goings on at the shops on the Hobfield opened a window into another world. She’d seen at least two scuffles and one failed mugging. And all within the space of two hours’ worth of tape.

“I’ll keep at it.”

“We’re definitely looking at murder,” Calladine announced to his team. “Ice might have managed without his fingers, but he’ll not get by without his head. I’m doubtful this is gang related, but keep an open mind. Ian Callum Edwards is a victim for sure, but I’ve also got grave doubts regarding the fate of Gavin Hurst. The two lived in each other’s pockets. However, there’s always the chance that Gavin knows something and is holed up somewhere. We need people to talk. I want a presence on the Hobfield, the community centre in particular.”

Whispers went around the room. He knew what they’d be thinking. Not gang related? What was he getting at? If this wasn’t gang warfare, then what was it? He saw Ruth shake her head and fold her arms. In her opinion he was doing it again — ignoring the obvious.

Calladine wrote Gavin’s name on the board. “Why hasn’t Julian come up with his name?”

“No DNA on record,” Imogen offered.

Calladine gave her a look and narrowed his eyes. That was information for him and the team, not gossip for Julian and Imogen to chew over.

“Speak to his family, friends, anyone who saw — sees him regularly. We need to know a lot more about Gavin.”

“Gavin doesn’t seem to have any family,” Ruth told the team. “He was living with an auntie until she died. After that he’s had no fixed address. If you ask me he’s been dossing down with Ice somewhere.”

“Rocco, try and find out where, and anything you can about any other relatives he might have. Speak to them. If they’re local they might have had contact with him recently. Kelly Griggs — any ideas?”

“The kid is in nursery most days, so I presume she’s found herself a job. Her neighbours don’t know where. No one’s seen her for a day or two,” Rocco added.

“We need to speak to both women,” he reiterated. “Four of us have been on the Hobfield today, and I didn’t sense any tension. In fact the place was surprisingly quiet. Even Masheda and his girlfriend didn’t seem bothered to be seen talking to us. Now that’s not natural.”

He paused for a moment. The nick might have got a rude awakening from the quiet summer, but the estate hadn’t caught up yet. The problems would only get worse when it did. All hell would break out between the gangs. They’d blame each other for Ice’s death. There’d be beatings, fighting, and the police would have to pick up the pieces.

“Once this gets out we’ll struggle to keep a lid on the violence, so we need to move fast. Today’s been a long, hard slog. We’ve no motive, no weapons, and no idea why these two were killed. Was it deliberate or random? But we do have names, well one for sure. Tomorrow I want some background. I want everything we can get on Ice and Gavin Hurst.” He looked back at the board. “While we’re at it, see if there is any link, no matter how tenuous, to Richard Pope.”

Minutes later, the team dispersed for the day.

“Are you going?” Ruth asked Calladine, looking up from her desk. “I’ll finish up myself in a while, but I’ve still got some stuff to do. I want to make some inroads into my research on Ice’s background. He had a record. He’d spent time in a Young Offenders Unit. You never know — there might be something in there that will help,” Ruth nodded hopefully. “Something to make you see the reality of the situation. Make you see that this was to do with drugs and gang rivalry, and not the work of some wild murderer on the loose.”

“Don’t stay too late. Your day’s been as long as mine. Mind you I’m off to see my mother first, then home.” He yawned. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ruth. Then with any luck we’ll interview those women.”

He still hadn’t done anything about Monika’s present. The Antiques Centre would be closed now, so it’d have to wait. Her birthday wasn’t until the end of the week anyway. He needed to think, but his head was full of clutter. Monika was only part of it; there was also his mother. She was old and frail. He saw as much of her as he could, but he still felt guilty about the situation. He knew this couldn’t continue. One day soon he’d get the call, and he’d feel even worse for not having done more. But at least he’d got her into the home, a good one. The residents were well looked after, Monika saw to that. He had no worries on that score.

* * *

Well looked after and kept warm. In fact the place was so hot the air hit him like a blow torch as he went through the front doors. It was a sauna. No fear of his mother freezing to death, not in here. Calladine walked down the corridor towards the sitting room, shuffling his overcoat from his shoulders as he went.

“Tom!” Monika greeted him, coming out of her office.

She was a few inches shorter than he, and struggling with her weight. Her dark hair was beginning to grey down the parting. She looked tired; like him she had a lot on her plate.

“You look beat.” She frowned, cupping his weary face in her hands. “Trouble?”

“Could be.” He nodded. “In fact, yes, big trouble, my instincts are telling me. I’ll look in on Ma, then finally I can get back home.”

Monika kissed him on the mouth and stroked his cheek. He put his arm around her waist and held her close for a moment. This brief moment of affection made Calladine uncomfortable.

What was wrong with him?

Monika was a good woman; he could do a lot worse. He should think more about settling down properly, and he’d known her for a good while. But was that enough? There was a time when their relationship had been vibrant; when she sparked something in him. But since their last breakup things had changed — she’d changed. She’d aged, and put on the weight. She carried it well because she was tall, but it was there nonetheless. He was a selfish prick. This woman was the closest thing he’d had to a girlfriend in years, and he had the temerity to be picky.

“She’s not been well today. Her legs are bad again,” Monika warned. “They’ve been bandaged, and she’s grumpy and a bit confused. I asked the doctor to see her, and he left some medication.”

“Her legs?”

“Cellulitis, Tom. It’s common enough in the elderly when they’re sitting around a lot.”

“Confusion . . .” He shook his head. “She used to be as sharp as a pin.” This was something he found hard to adjust to. He was aware that she was forgetting things more and more; he just didn’t want to admit that she was slipping further away from him.

“We’ll keep an eye on her, don’t worry.” Monika was reassuring. “She’s in there.” She nodded towards the sitting room. “Watching the telly and drinking tea.”

“Look, I might be busy this week.” He was paving the way for his probable absence. “I’ll arrange something for your birthday though. I won’t forget, I promise. A meal at that Italian, the one that does the wonderful Carbonara?” he suggested hopefully.

“Suits me. Perhaps you’d consider staying over at mine too. Give a girl a proper treat.” She winked at him.

Calladine bent down and brushed her lips with his own. He smiled and nodded, but he’d have to think about that one. He knew already he’d make some excuse and duck out of it. He didn’t know what it was, but since they’d rekindled this relationship, he’d kept Monika very much at arm’s length.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like her, because he did. At one time he’d positively lusted after her. But that was a long time ago, when she’d been married to Ruth’s brother. Perhaps it had been a case of simply wanting what he couldn’t have. These days she was more of a friend, a comfort, even a sounding board. That was no basis for a relationship. He knew his faults, and relationships with women were high on the list. He’d been married and divorced, both before his twenty-first birthday. He’d made mistakes, always put the job first, and he doubted he could change now.

They were sat in a semi-circle, in huge high-backed chairs with footrests. His mother sat at the end, so he was able to crouch down beside her.

“You’re not so good . . .” He reached for her hand. She didn’t respond, didn’t even acknowledge his presence. As Monika had said, her legs were bandaged, but she seemed comfortable enough.

It had happened quickly. One day she’d been running her own life and doing her best to organise his, then, as if a switch had been flicked, she was here. As care homes went, this place was fine, more than fine, with the added bonus of having Monika in charge. But it wasn’t how he’d imagined his mother would end up.

He patted her thin, bony hand. Her skin was like paper, wrinkled and covered in brown stains. Age: he still couldn’t get his head around it. When had this happened, when had things changed so much?

* * *

Kelly Griggs stirred, groaning into the darkness. She flicked the switch on the lamp by her bed, and cursed as the bulb blew. She rolled over, groaned again and clamped her hands to her ears in self-defence. The tiny bedroom was filled with a crescendo of noise, that high-pitched wail that only a baby was capable of making. It was the sort of wail that demanded instant attention.

The young girl rolled across the bed and rubbed her tired eyes. In the Moses basket beside her on the floor she could just make out the hungry bundle wriggling with impatience as he thrust tiny fists into a sucking mouth. Hungry as he was, Jack would have to wait until she sorted his milk. Kelly felt around on the cabinet beside her bed for cigarettes and her lighter.

She’d have to see to him, she decided, lighting a cigarette and moving carefully in the dark bedroom towards the kitchen. Very soon the inhabitants of the entire deck would be awake and on her back, and she couldn’t risk that. Her neighbours were difficult enough to get on with as it was.

It was the middle of the night. There was just no way she could keep this up, the same exhausting routine, week after week. She stumbled across the floor and heard a
knock, knock
from the adjoining flat.

“The old biddy’s awake now,” Kelly told the screaming babe. The elderly woman next door was using her stick to rap on the wall, trying to stir her into action.

“For God’s sake feed him, Kelly!” The walls must be made of cardboard, she thought, running a hand through her long, dark hair in exasperation.

“You’ve got the whole deck up now, you lazy cow!” There was a final thump on the wall.

She wasn’t lazy, she was tired, exhausted by the drudgery of it all. She had an infant to care for, and a new job to hold down. Ice had said he’d help. He’d promised her the day Jack was born that he wouldn’t let her down. That was three months ago, and she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’d seen him since.

Kelly lit a gas ring in the small kitchen, flicking on the light as she went. She poured the contents of a feed she’d made earlier into a pan for it to heat, while she lifted the distraught infant from his bed.

She heard a knock, a rap at her front door. Bloody neighbours were taking this too far. Young babies cry, there wasn’t anything she could do about that.

“Bugger off!” she screamed, as she rocked Jack in her arms. Moments later she had transferred the milk to a feeding bottle and stuck it in his mouth. He was quiet at last. Kelly would give whoever had come to her door a right roasting. She was in the mood.

But the deck corridor was empty and the surrounding flats were dark and quiet. Whoever knocked had legged it sharpish. Then looking down, she saw it. A grotty-looking carrier bag, tied up with pink ribbon and with a note attached, had been dumped on her doorstep.

Someone playing tricks; something loathsome left as payback for the noise? She was tempted to put it straight in the bin, but instead Kelly picked the thing up and plonked it on the table, undoing it with her one free hand.

What she saw made her blink in disbelief. It wasn’t something obnoxious after all, not by a long chalk. Someone had left a bag full of money on her doorstep. A bag full of money tied up with pretty pink ribbon, she thought, feeling the smoothness of the fabric against her fingers.

She tipped it onto the table, watching it roll around in small tubular bundles fastened up with elastic bands. Ice, she thought immediately. That was how he kept his money. He’d roll it up then hide it on his body, in his pockets, and even down his socks.

Why? Why would he do this? Why not just knock and come in? Why not give her the money in person? Up until now he hadn’t given her a penny, which was why she was slaving away in that café every spare minute she had.

She unravelled the note. It was scrawled in red biro.
You did a kind thing.
What did that mean? What kind thing? When was that?

He must be in some sort of trouble and he didn’t want her to be involved. He was being considerate. But Ice wasn’t considerate; it wasn’t Ice at all. He could talk a good game, but that’s all it was, talk, like when Jack was born. So what was this? Why all this money, and why not show himself?

Chapter 7

Tuesday

He was drifting somewhere between sleep and thoughts of his mother. She was calling to him, pressing that damn buzzer thing she sometimes wore around her neck. Freda Calladine wasn’t happy . . . but for some reason she wasn’t able to tell him why.