Dead Wrong (6 page)

With that she went back inside and slammed the door shut.

“Charming.” Ruth was peering through a small window beside the door. “If she’s not here then there’s not much we can do, I guess.”

Calladine’s mobile sounded.

“Looks like Rocco and Dodgy had no luck either. I’ll arrange for a uniformed officer to keep an eye open until someone shows up. We’d better see if Donna Edwards is home.” He shook his head wearily.

He’d tell her that her son had met with an accident, and they were looking for him. But what was the betting they’d back soon enough to tell her he was dead?

They took the stairs down. Kelly lived on the third floor, so it wasn’t too arduous. They walked across the large soulless square and into another block, where Donna lived. No lifts yet again, and this time they had seven flights to climb. They had no luck there either. All three were out — or missing. He felt the familiar knot in his stomach.

The two detectives walked back across the square to their parked car. A group of youths stood against the railings, staring, following their every step. The entire pack were clones of each other: hooded tops, expensive trainers, even down to the sullen expressions plastered across their young faces.

“You know what this is, don’t you? It’s learn your lesson time from old man Fallon. You should speak to Central, see what he’s been up to. I’ll lay odds Ice was getting too big for his boots and Fallon took him down. You’ll see; whatever was going on will stop now. There won’t be any more trouble, not after this.”

“It’s all too elaborate for Fallon.” Calladine shook his head.

“Community centre,” Ruth noted, as they ran the gauntlet of cat-calls and abuse on the way back to their car. “Something on, by the sound of things.”

“Housing Action, but it’s breaking up now.” And he made towards the doors.

It was possible that he’d find one of the women in here. If not at the housing meeting, then perhaps making use of the other facilities the centre offered. There was a crèche, a café, even a food bank, and a large IT suite, which had rows of PCs, as well as superfast broadband. A couple of years back the centre had received a lottery grant and, against all the odds, had managed to hang on to the equipment that had been bought.

The two detectives walked through the centre, finishing at the IT suite. There were a few teenagers playing games, a man looking through the job sites, and Malcolm Masheda and his girlfriend giggling over a computer in the far corner.

“Afternoon, boss,” he greeted them in his deep voice. “I’m a popular guy today.” He grinned. “Had a couple of your mates over earlier. But I put them right. No worries, I’m job hunting, that’s what we’re doing, innit, girl?” He clutched Cuba somewhere around her hips. “Now I’s got a CV. Cuba’s been helping me.” He said this proudly, sending the document to the printer.

Malcolm Masheda with a job. That was the most improbable thing Calladine had heard in a while. He stood for a moment and looked around. The kids were laughing now. They were quite content to be indoors, away from trouble and engrossed in some mindless act of violence, at one remove on a computer screen. Mash and the other guy were both job hunting. What was going on? Where was the tension? This was supposed to be an estate in turmoil. Barbaric acts of brutality had been perpetrated on two of their number. So if they were all living in fear of Ray Fallon’s wrath, why the smiling faces? Why so laid back?

In silence, Calladine walked back outside, stood at the edge of the square and looked around. Apart from the moody group of youths, who were now kicking an empty drink can around, he was surrounded by the normal sounds of day to day life. Kids, adult chatter, folk sweeping the decks, even the paper boy was delivering — and whistling as he worked. This wasn’t a place in the grip of fear, far from it.

It was clear to him that they didn’t know. The folk on this estate had no idea what had happened. Something wasn’t right. If Ice had crossed a line and had been punished for it, then they’d all know. He felt his stomach flip again.

“Ruth!” he called to his sergeant as she joined him outside. “Would you mind hanging around for a bit, see if either of those women return home? I’ll send Dodgy to join you.”

Calladine had things to think about, and he needed to be alone for a bit. It wasn’t a turf war, not a fight for supremacy on the drug-dealing front — so what was going on? Calladine had an idea, but it didn’t sit well. His instinct was at it again.

Someone was getting rid of the rubbish.

* * *

Back at the station, Calladine went to the main office and added Masheda, Donna and Kelly’s names to the incident board. He needed to talk to the two women. For his own peace of mind, he needed to ensure they were okay.

Something was wrong, he could smell it. This was all too easy. Masheda, the receipt left conveniently for them to find; it smacked of someone leading them in entirely the wrong direction.

He went to his office, retrieved the photo of Richard Pope from his file and stuck it on the incident board with the others. He didn’t know why. There was no rational explanation for it being there, but he felt sure the shooting was connected in some way. That was where it had all begun.

“We’ve had a call, sir.” Imogen burst into the office, with Julian in tow.

She was pale. Julian had his arm around her shoulder, in a gesture of comfort.

“From the charity shop in Leesdon, you know, the one in the High Street,” she continued, almost faltering. “They’ve received a package. A bundle wrapped in a carrier bag was stuffed into a black bin liner along with a load of old clothes.”

“What makes it our business?” Calladine tore his eyes reluctantly from the board.

“The carrier bag’s from the same supermarket. There’s a receipt clipped to it with that mark stamped on it.” She nodded at the image of a bloodied hand. “And the bundle . . .” She coughed nervously. “It’s a human head.”

Chapter 5

Myrtle Stanley had worked at the charity shop for more than five years. It wasn’t really work because it was unpaid. She was a volunteer. A volunteer who put in the hours, did the early shift, the cleaning, the sorting, anything and everything in fact to ensure that the shop stayed open and attracted people through the door.

That was their first priority, Doreen, the manageress, was fond of telling them. Like some of sort of female Svengali she exerted a strange power over her well-intentioned workforce. So much so, that they all gave their time freely for the cause. Her word was law, and they happily worked like Trojans on the upkeep of the shop.

Myrtle had opened up today. She’d got out of the taxi, paid the driver, fished in her ample handbag for the shop keys, and let herself in. There was the usual array of black bags full of stuff, stacked on the steps outside the door. She’d viewed them with a mix of pleasure and dread. People were so generous; a trait Doreen had instilled in the local population. But that number of bags meant a mountain of work, and Myrtle knew today was going to be hard.

One by one she’d dragged the bags inside. It was raining, and they were already covered in drizzle, so she had to be quick. She wanted to get the clothes out and sorted before they got too damp.

It wasn’t long before Wilfred joined her; another keen helper who used the shop as escape from a life of loneliness in his flat.

“You get the kettle on,” she’d told him. “A strong cuppa, then we’ll do these.”

“Something smells a bit ripe,” Wilfred had warned as he hobbled through to the small kitchen. His knee was giving him trouble again.

“I can’t smell anything.” Myrtle got on with organising the bags in order of size. “We mustn’t quibble; we should be glad of anything we get, given the state of things around here.”

She was right; they should be very grateful. More and more of the adult population were out of work. Shops in town were closing down, and a local factory had shut only last month.

That made their position in the community so much more important. They were needed. People relied on them, particularly the mothers with children to clothe. Recently they’d started a school uniform section, and that was very popular.

“Do you want me to deal with whatever it is?” Wilfred had offered, coming back into the shop with two steaming mugs. “You can’t smell anything because of your trouble,” he’d reminded her pointedly. “It could be something obnoxious, a dead rat or worse.”

“Don’t be silly, no one would do anything like that.”

“Don’t forget last month, and those hooligans who all but ransacked the place.”

“Didn’t get much though, did they? Not once we started on them.”

“I got my knee knocked though, didn’t I? That thug hit me with a flaming bat, could have broken it.”

“A couple T-shirts, that’s all they got away with in the end. It could have been much worse but we showed them.” At this, she raised her fist and punched in the air.

It was then that Wilfred had taken the scissors to the offending bag, and snipped it open. He’d reeled back, covering his face with a hand as the smell hit him.

“God in Heaven, whatever is it? Myrtle, even you should be able to smell that!”

Myrtle had tried. She’d sniffed the air but had only caught a faint whiff of the unpleasantness. “There are times when Parkinson’s is a blessing,” she’d joked.

She’d taken Wilfred’s walking stick and poked the bag hard until it gaped open. At that point the bag had fallen on its side and something had rolled out onto the carpet with a dull thud. She’d been about to send Wilfred for a dustpan and brush when she realised that the offending object was a human head.

At which point Myrtle fainted and Wilfred had called the police.

* * *

“She’s been taken to the hospital, sir,” Dodgy told Calladine, when he arrived at the shop. “She was shaken up and felt woozy. Had to be on the safe side, being the age she is.”

“This is Doreen Potter, the manageress,” Wilfred said. “I could smell something was wrong straight away, but Myrtle has Parkinson’s you see. It’s taken away her sense of smell, so she didn’t realise.”

“I was here before Doc Hoyle, sir.” Ruth emerged from the kitchen with two cups of tea. “There was a lot of decomposition, but it was Ice.” She gave the cups to Wilfred and Doreen. “Batho’s lot have taken the receipt and the bag. I came here the moment I got the call. Donna Edwards didn’t come home, nor Kelly, so it was no use hanging about on the estate.”

“We need to speak to those women as a matter of urgency. I need to know Edwards’s movements over these last few days, and when he was last seen alive. We could do with knowing if he’s upset anyone recently, too.”

“A quick visit to the Hobfield, and I’ll write you a long list,” Ruth was sarcastic. “It’s more a case of who hasn’t he upset.”

“What about Masheda?”

“Convenient that, wasn’t it?” Calladine put on a pair of gloves. “A receipt we can trace straight back to that family without any waste of time.” He shook his head. “Someone’s playing us, Ruth, and I don’t like it.”

Calladine sighed — he could tell from Ruth’s expression that she didn’t entirely go along with this train of thought. She was familiar with this mood; she’d seen it before often enough. Calladine knew she considered him a damn good cop, but his big failing was this tendency to let his mind go off at a tangent, and keep things to himself. So what to tell her?

If this wasn’t gang or Fallon related, then what was it? Ruth seemed to think that this was a drugs war, pure and simple. It was a case of Ice having overstepped the mark in a fight for supremacy. It had got out of hand and Ice was dead. But was that true? Calladine needed to talk to Fallon.

“This leaving body parts where they are sure to be found is showmanship — a warning to others. To us,” Ruth told him.

“Perhaps,” was Calladine’s cryptic reply.

“You look puzzled, sir.” She approached him. “Perhaps we should do what Thorpe suggested and go round up the entire bunch of them.”

“This isn’t a turf war, Ruth. We’re supposed to think it is —” He looked at her. “But they’ve overdone it; they’ve gone too far.” He was convinced of it, but he could tell he wasn’t reaching her. He closed his eyes for a moment. Turf war. It would almost be a relief, given how things were going. But his instincts told him that this was something far worse.

Calladine shook his head and looked around the shop. It was well laid out and offered a wide range of stuff. Not bad, considering everything was second-hand. He wandered past the lines of clothing and sat down on the bench next to Wilfred.

“You were very brave,” he told the elderly man gently. “You did everything right, ringing us, not touching things. I know you’re in the village and not on the estate, but do the kids give you any trouble?”

“Not usually, but last week we had a group of them in. Tried to rubbish the place.” He wiped his brow with a cotton hankie. “Me and Myrtle saw them off, hooligans that they were.”

Calladine couldn’t imagine what had gone through the man’s mind when the head had rolled onto the floor. It was shocking, horrific — almost inconceivable that anyone would leave it in a place where they must have known how it would be found.

But wasn’t that the point? Whoever had done this wanted it found, same with the fingers. They’d been left where their quick discovery was assured.

Calladine’s eyes narrowed. This was brutal. “Where’s Rocco?” he asked Ruth.

“He’s gone to check the other shops down the High Street on the hunt for CCTV again. The bag must have been left between six last night and nine this morning.”

“Has the . . . body part gone to the doc?” Calladine tried hard not to visualise this particular part.

Ruth nodded. “The doc was here within fifteen minutes. He took it away pretty smartish.” She swallowed audibly.

He turned to Wilfred. “Do you have CCTV here? Perhaps outside?”

Doreen answered. “No cameras, I’m afraid. We’re a charity shop, Inspector, so we shouldn’t need them.”

Calladine would have liked to lecture her on personal safety, as well as the benefits for folk like him when things went wrong, but he didn’t bother.