Unquiet Souls: a DI Gus McGuire case Read online

  He started the engine. ‘Not long now, Mr Happy, not long now.’ By the time they reached the car park near the village he’d be in position and they’d be his. No questions asked. ‘After all, who cares about two mucky Roma kids?’ That was the beauty of this job: one for the client and one for him. It was the proverbial win–win situation.

  Thursday 10am, Gorce, Poland

  Sergeant Jankowski, overcoat pulled tightly round his skinny middle, watched the crime scene team process the rocky hillside. The girl’s body had been taken away, but horrific images of ten-year-old Magdalena Lauk would give Jankowski nightmares for months.

  Abruptly, he walked away, signalling his constable to follow. When they were out of earshot, he turned frosty eyes on the man. ‘So, Magdalena Lauk was reported missing three days ago, and what…’ He flung his arms in the air, ‘You did nothing?’

  The young constable, hat in hand, looked distraught. He mumbled something indistinguishable.

  ‘Speak up! I can’t hear you.’

  Risking a sideways glance at Jankowski he said, ‘She was Roma, sir.’

  Jankowski swore. ‘And?’ He stepped closer, his jaw tight. ‘You’re saying that because she was Roma, you didn’t investigate fully?’

  The constable paled. ‘I thought she’d turn up, sir. That sort usually do.’

  Jankowski stepped back, fists clenched. He was tempted to punch the constable’s face. Instead, he spat on the pebbles at the man’s feet. ‘Well, you were right, constable. She did turn up, didn’t she?’

  He strode off, but the constable called his name.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘What about her brother, sir? Where do you think he is?’

  ‘Fuck!’ Jankowski turned slowly. ‘Her brother?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They were both reported missing.’

  Without stopping to reprimand him, Jankowski, spun on his heel and headed up the track, bellowing orders to extend the search for a boy.

  Chapter 3

  2015

  Saturday 2:30am, Bradford

  With sheets tangled round his sweat-drenched legs, Gus lurched upright, painfully jerking his shoulder. Breathing unevenly, his heart pounding, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and, elbows resting on knees, supported his head in his hands.

  Movement in the hallway told him he’d wakened his parents. He cursed. The dream was somehow more vivid tonight. He blamed Dr Mahmood. Why the hell did she have to keep banging on and on about it? He wanted to forget the whole fucking thing not hash over every bloody stab wound Greg had inflicted. It was bad enough that he revisited the incident most nights without having to put up with her solicitous enquiries over his mental health. He didn’t need anyone to confide in and, if he did, it wouldn’t be a fucking shrink.

  He took a slug of water from the glass on the bed side table and downed two naproxen before getting up and walking naked to the en suite. Allowing the warm water to trickle through his dreads and soothe his aching shoulder, he stood arms splayed against the tiled wall. Head bowed, he thought about Greg pacing up and down the living room, a kitchen knife in, his hand, another stuck down the waistband of his jeans. Off his meds and out of control he didn’t know what he was doing. Greg loved his wife Becky and adored little Billy. If he’d been in control he’d never have done it. Slapping his palm against the wet wall, Gus railed against the sobs that clogged his chest. He could still hear Greg raving on about Satan and devil’s spawn. As vividly as if he was still in the room, he saw him thrust the knife into Becky, the hilt quivering from her eye. The other blinked twice and then she was gone... Just like that. Gone. Little Billy, head against her breast, her arms still round him, screamed as she died. And then Greg began thrusting the second knife into Billy’s small body.

  This was Gus’s last memory of Billy and he saw it every bloody night. In his mind he could see the blood, smell it even now. He’d never forget it, or what he did next. Knowing only too well that when he jumped over that coffee table he had to stop Greg, he did the only thing he could. He dived on top of Billy, hoping that the weight of his body would staunch the blood. He barely felt the rain of knife blows to his own body. Twisting onto his back he saw the insanity in his friend’s eyes and did the only thing he could. Stretching up, he yanked the knife from Becky’s eye and plunged it into his best friend’s neck.

  Chapter 4

  Sunday 10am

  Detective Sergeant Alice Cooper’s boot connected with the car tyre, sending a puff of snow into the blizzard. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck!’

  She stomped, covering her trousers in slush and yanked open the door of her Mini Cooper. Scrunching her coat round her waist she flung herself into the driver’s seat and gripping one woolly fingertip between her teeth, she teased her glove off, before jabbing the number into her phone. The last thing she wanted was to ask newbie Detective Constable John Sampson for help, but she had no choice. Her Mini couldn’t stutter up a feeble cough, never mind propel her to the crime scene.

  In more temperate weather, Alice hand-washed and valeted her beloved car each week, but in the freezing Bradford winter she’d been neglectful and now her treasure was retaliating. She couldn’t really blame her. She had been lashed by rock salt and now scum covered her beautiful green body. The hand-painted black flowers billowing over her doors, along her roof and across her bonnet were filthy. Cursing the northern weather, she waited for Sampson to answer. It wasn’t that she disliked Bradford. On the contrary, she loved it. As cosmopolitan as London, but with much more heart and warmth, well… not at this precise moment, she acknowledged, shivering in her frozen tomb. Sampson answered at last.

  ‘Pick me up at my house, ASAP.’ She hung up before he could reply. She didn’t dislike Sampson. He was keen and competent; what was there to dislike? She just felt out of her depth. This was the first suspicious death. She had been effectively running the Violent Crimes Unit ever since her boss Detective Inspector Angus McGuire had gone on sick leave six months ago. She felt less out of her depth lately, especially after what happened in Brent last year. Truth was she was still reeling from that and she did not need the added pressure of mollycoddling a newbie. When Sampson arrived, she tramped over like a miniature Michelin man, her scarf hiding her disgruntled expression as she got in.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Obediently, Sampson edged onto the icy road. Slipping into second gear he said, ‘Good morning, DS Cooper.’

  Alice, fiddling with the heater, muttered a reluctant greeting and sank deeper into her seat. Sampson edged up the hill, wipers frantically battling the sloppy drops of snow that landed relentlessly on the screen. Nearing their destination, the snow slowed and the juddering screech of wipers across the drying windscreen made her fingers itch to flick the wipers off, but she contained herself. Instead, she studied the row of shops that made Heaton a village in the heart of inner city Bradford. A café, chippy, chemist, post office, pub, Chinese takeout and One Stop grocery store – what more did a community need?

  ‘The gates at the bottom of the graveyard are open, so park in there,’ she advised Sampson. ‘You don’t want to get stuck on those cobbled side streets.’

  Edging between the ornate gates, Sampson parked beside a Mercedes. Alice knew it belonged to Gus’ dad, Dr Fergus McGuire, the pathologist. They got out and signed the crime scene log. The graveyard stood on a slope, with Emm Lane running along the bottom. Sandstone terraced houses dominated the right and a row of newer houses stood on the left. A low drystone dyke stretched along the top with a gap leading to the children’s playground. The white forensics tent rose like an incongruous igloo amid the tombstones with an ice-covered climbing frame looming behind.

  ‘Damn creepy, having a graveyard next to a kids’ playground.’

  Sampson laughed. ‘Bet the kids love it. Playing hide and seek round all those spooky graves.’

  ‘Morbid little bastards,’ thought Alice with a shudder, as she braced herself to face the crime scene. She trudged tow
ards the tent, Sampson trailing behind. A raised walkway allowed them access without contaminating evidence. Outside the tent, a police constable with a runny nose thrust body suits and bootees at them. Alice struggled to pull the suit over her bulky coat. ‘What do we have?’

  ‘Woman,’ said the constable, launching into a coughing fit. When it finally subsided, he added, ‘She’s in her night clothes. Wound to the head. Bloke who found her, a Mr Bates, lives over there. Says she’s local.’ He gestured to the houses behind them. ‘He’s in a police car on Quarry Street. He was out looking for his escaped pet rabbit when he found the body. Doesn’t want to go home till he’s found the rabbit. Trying to avoid a ticking off from his wife, I reckon.’

  Wishing a missing rabbit was her only worry, Alice poked her head through the tent flap. ‘Alright to come in?’

  A lumbering yeti, encapsulated in a crime scene suit, turned round, arms spread wide. ‘Och Alice, grand to see you!’

  Alice grinned at the bulbous turnip face peering at her from inside the white hood.

  ‘Hi Doc, what’ve we got?’

  Dr McGuire moved to offer her a clearer view of the body. Alice had trained herself to deal with the horror of murder by starting at the victim’s feet, which were rarely the most horrific part of a murder scene. By focussing on them first, the rest became more manageable. Still awful, but less in your face.

  A soggy pink slipper hung from one of the woman’s feet, the other slipper protruded from the snow nearby. Her toes were skinny and looked as if they’d been mangled by years of being crammed into too-small shoes; chipped varnish clung to raggy nails. Emaciated legs with the blue thread-lines associated with drug use, escaped from her sodden nightie. A sad polyester dressing gown lay open under her body like a picnic blanket. Pock marks and macabre drizzles of mascara, tainted pink with blood, lined her face. Her hair, like rats’ tails, surrounded her head. She looked forty, but experience told Alice, she was probably in her twenties. Doc McGuire would find out during the post-mortem.

  ‘Poor sod.’ She turned to Sampson. ‘What’s your feeling?’

  ‘A bit unusual to be out in just your nightie.’

  Alice nodded. ‘Yeah, for you and me maybe, but she shows signs of being a junkie. Societal conventions aren’t top priority when you need a hit and, according to our witness, she’s local.’

  She turned to Dr McGuire who was packing his things away in his battered old case. ‘What can you tell us, Doc?’

  ‘Well, as you can see, we’ve got two blunt force trauma injuries to the head. The first, just above the eye, knocked her over and the second, to the back of the skull was caused by hitting her head on the gravestone as she fell.’

  Alice opened her mouth, but before she could ask her question, he spoke. ‘Och, Alice, you know I can’t tell time of death with any accuracy yet.’ He patted her arm, ‘Come to my post mortem party later and find out more but, for now, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Hissing Sid.’ He lowered his voice, ‘And believe me he’s in excellent hissing form today.’ He leaned forward, kissed Alice’s cheek and executed a skilful shuffle past her on the narrow boards. Alice saw Sampson raise an eyebrow and smiled. ‘I lived with the Doc and his wife when I first moved up from London. DI McGuire gets really pissed off by his affection, but I think it’s funny.’

  They followed Dr McGuire outside and Alice caught up with him. ‘How’s Gus, Doc?’

  For a second the pathologist’s smile faded. ‘He’s physically fit to return to work, but that bloody shrink is farting about. She doesn’t understand that the best therapy for Angus is to get back to work.’ He shrugged. ‘Bloody experts!’

  Stripping the nitrile gloves from her hand, Alice shoved them in her pocket. She knew that his physical injuries were the least of Gus’ worries. It was what was going on in his mind that mattered and that cow Gabriella hadn’t helped by ditching him. She kicked one of the plastic boards and felt marginally better. Then, catching Sampson’s eye, she turned her attention to the Chief Crime Scene Officer, Sidney Denby, nicknamed Hissing Sid because of his ability to foully contaminate every crime scene with his noxious farts.

  Barely five foot two, Sid strutted over to Alice and pulled his mask down, revealing a neatly trimmed goatee. He handed Alice a plastic bag containing a bloodied sandstone chunk.

  ‘We’ve found the weapon. It’s the right shape and of course the blood smear’s a dead giveaway.’

  Alice took the bag, then abruptly covered her nose. ‘For fuck’s sake Sid! You’ve bloody dropped one haven’t you?’

  He grinned. Alice handed the bag back as he moved away, laughing.

  She surveyed the surrounding area before speaking to Sampson. ‘Look like an opportunistic crime to you?’ She blew on her hands. ‘Reckon she brought a punter back here for a shag and it all went wrong?’

  Sampson hesitated. ‘You don’t think she was dumped here then? She’s not wearing the usual prostitute gear is she?’

  Alice shrugged. ‘We’ll have to consider every possibility.’

  She stripped off her ‘abominables’, her name for the cumbersome white suits, and pulled on her woolly gloves. ‘Not a very private dump spot is it? He’d have to have parked in Garden Street, and then lugged her up those narrow steps.’ She pointed to the entrance. ‘Then get her into the park, in full view of those houses, before hauling her into the graveyard.’ She brushed her hair back from her face. ‘Or, if they parked in Quarry Street, they’d have to lug her past people’s front doors to get to the park entrance over there.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not buying that. I think it’s a local crime and, going by the blood on that stone, probably an opportunistic one. Come on, let’s go and see what Mr Bates has to tell us.’

  Alice and Sampson climbed the few steps into the park and made their way through the gap onto the playing field. Unusually for a snow covered park, it was unblemished. The first responders had done a good job securing the scene and the hordes of eager sledgers that would normally have made their way through the park down towards prime sledging ground in Heaton Woods had been thwarted. As they trudged over the raised pathway to the park entrance, Alice was aware of anonymous faces in the upstairs windows of the houses overlooking the crime scene. They took a right into a cobbled ginnel that led them alongside snow covered gardens, before turning left onto Quarry Street itself where the police car waited, its windows steamed up and the engine on for heat.

  Alice tapped gloved fingers on the driver’s window and it immediately cracked open. She nodded at the PC behind the wheel. ‘Off you go and join the house-to-house, while I chat with Mr Bates here.’

  She stood back to allow the PC to scramble out of the car and then took his place behind the wheel, while Sampson slipped into the back seat beside Simon Bates. Mr Bates was in his forties, slightly balding, unshaven and wearing a pair of baggy joggers with a slice of striped pyjama escaping from the elasticised cuffs. He’d slipped his anorak off and now sat slumped against it in the back seat, an empty takeaway coffee cup in one hand. He looked expectantly from Sampson to Cooper as they introduced themselves.

  Alice turned sideways in the driver’s seat so she could see him and smiled. ‘Just tell us in your own words what happened this morning, Mr Bates.’

  He rubbed his hand over his stubble. ‘Well, I fed the rabbit, Floppy, yesterday and mustn’t have latched the hutch properly. She’s always trying to escape, is Floppy. Anyway, when Jane went to feed her this morning she was gone. Jane wasn’t right happy, so she dragged me out of bed to go and find her.’

  Alice nodded sympathetically and he continued. ‘She told me not to come back till I’d found her or she’d make me sleep in the office. She’s done that before and it’s not that warm. So I got up and started trekking through the graveyard. That’s usually where the stupid thing goes when she escapes. Anyway, I’d done all of the area nearest to our house.’ He grinned and for a minute his worried frown disappeared. In a proud voice he said, ‘I used that grid method like
they do in CSI, you know?’

  Sampson smothered a giggle which earned him a frown from Alice who continued to smile encouragingly. ‘Good idea, but no luck, eh?’

  The worried frown returned. ‘No, damn snow hid any rabbit tracks, so I wandered further up towards the park and that’s when I saw her.’

  He shuddered and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I could see she was dead. You know, with the snow covering her and the blood on her head? So, I phoned 999 and then Jane came over to see what I was doing.’

  Alice frowned. ‘You mean your wife came over to see the body?’

  ‘Eh? Oh no. No, she came over to see why I’d stopped looking for Floppy. She saw me on my phone from the back bedroom window and she was in one of her moods.’ He used his index fingers to emphasise the word.

  Alice and Sampson exchanged amused glances. ‘Did either of you recognise the woman?’

  He nodded. ‘Oh yes. She’s always hanging around the pubs, trying to get money from folk and that, she’s a bloody nuisance. Jane says she’s a…’ he raised his eyebrows, ‘you know… a prostitute?’

  Alice raised one eyebrow as if surprised, ‘Oh?’

  Mr Bates folded his arms over his chest and nodded. ‘She’s got kids at the school. He gestured behind in the direction of the primary school at the back.’ Not right, her being allowed a kid when she’s like that, is it?’

  Alice shook her head in acknowledgement. ‘Don’t suppose you know her name do you?’

  ‘Oh yeah, Jane did a bit of phoning around and found out she’s called Sharon Asif.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I sometimes see her when I’m working late. She’s always drunk or stoned or something. Jane says the kids were always in a right state.’ He lowered his voice, with a look that reminded Alice of her long dead Nan who’d always thought the worst of everybody and enjoyed a damn good gossip. ‘Nits and smelly clothes and stuff.’