“Cash?” Benjamin laughed wildly. He knew he was dead anyway. “She ran out of money a long time ago.”
“What do you mean?” Nate asked. He had heard the ranting of dying men many times before. They rarely told the truth.
“Did you know she was taking it up the arse for her smack?” Benjamin grinned. “She fucking loved it. There was nothing that she wouldn’t do for a hit.”
Patrick Lloyd brought the iron down onto the dealers face. His scream was stifled as his lips sizzled. His body twitched as Patrick pressed the steam button and a cloud of boiling vapour engulfed the dealer’s head.
“We need to discuss your manners,” Patrick smiled as the dealer desperately tried to escape the pain. Nate Bradley took the bag and unlocked the steel plate, opening the door and stepping out into the night without saying another word. Nothing needed to be said. Patrick seemed to enjoy hurting people, buzzing off their fear. Nate never did. It was purely a means to an end. As he reached the van, he heard Benjamin’s muffled screams. They meant nothing to him.
Patrick Lloyd took his time killing Jacky Benjamin. Most of the man’s skin was burnt with the iron before he shattered every major bone in his body with the baseball bat. It felt good, and making the teenager watch was exciting. When he was done, he fetched his camper and returned for the boy. He took him to an empty factory unit near the river, Jamaica Street, and had hours of fun with him. It took the teenager days to finally die, and it entertained Patrick so much, he didn’t pick up his share of the tax until three days later. Working with the Gecko was fun, but his extracurricular activities were mind-blowing. He hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in years.
Kisha sat at her desk and sighed as she looked at the notes her fellow officer, Stevie Nelson, had left next to the computer. They looked like a five year old had scrawled on a piece of A4. He had circled some of the names in balloons; ticks and crosses were marked randomly in the margins. There was no sense to his workings. She picked her own notes and tried to compare them to his. Her handwriting was beautiful; she formed the letters perfectly. Kisha was proud of her work, and her reports looked more like a dissertation than a brief update.
“How is it going, Kisha?” Will asked, disturbing her thoughts.
“Slow,” she answered, forcing a smile. She didn’t want to drop Stevie in the mire, but it was obvious that he hadn’t finished entering the information they had gathered into the database before leaving the station. “We seem to be going around in circles entering all the key holders.”
“How come?” Will leaned over the back of the chair but maintained a comfortable distance between them. “How much info have you got?”
“Over three hundred names to crosscheck against flags in the investigation.” She pushed her chair back and frowned. “We’ve gathered a list consisting of anyone who had access to the building’s keys. We’ve included the owners, partners, shift managers, painters, joiners, roofers, bailiffs, the current estate agents and their service contractors!”
“It’s a lot to filter through,” Will laughed. The crime scene on Jamaica Street was a rented industrial unit which had changed hands numerous times over the past decade.
“Tell me about it, she sighed. Stevie had done nothing but hamper her work, but she didn’t want to tell Will that. “We’ve established that it has stood empty for the last four years, which has done little to narrow down the search.”
“Keep plugging away,” Will said. “Let me know if you need
any help.”
“Thanks, Will.”
“Where is Stevie, by the way?” Will stopped as he walked away.
“I think he’s running late,” Kisha lied. Will nodded and frowned. He walked across the office without making any comment about her partner’s absence.
Kisha had no idea where Stevie was, but she didn’t feel it was her place to say that. She picked up the top page of information and scanned it to see where they were up to.
“Do you want a brew, Kisha?” Smithy walked past and patted her on the shoulder on his way to the kitchen. Normally the touch of a man made her skin crawl, but Smithy was different because she knew he had no sexual interest in her. She looked up to him. The inspector had paired them as a team on several cases. As a new detective, he had given her a mentor to guide her. Smithy had taken her under his wing and they had gotten on well. They went for a drink after work some days and Kisha felt comfortable with him. He treated her as a fellow officer and had no sexual interest in her. If he did, he kept it a secret.
“Yes, please, Smithy,” she said. She smiled as he walked by although she didn’t feel much like smiling. She wanted to be at the cutting edge of the investigation, not tied to a computer.
“How are you finding working with Stevie Nelson?” Smithy lowered his voice. He didn’t like the man. Kisha was his pet newcomer and as her mentor, they had become close friends.
“He is grinding me down.” She looked tired out.
“Is he behaving himself?” Smithy asked. “I know you said he came on to you at Christmas.”
“Don’t get me started.” She looked around to see if anyone was listening. “He is constantly making sexual innuendoes and brushing against me when there’s no need to.”
“Do you want me to have a word with him?”
“I can fight my own battles, but thanks,” she chuckled. “He’s a sexist pig.”
“He is,” Smithy agreed with a smile.
“It has crossed my mind to make a formal complaint already, but we’re only a few days into the task.”
“If it’s pissing you off, then you should.”
“No, Smithy. I can’t do that.” She put her head in her hands for a moment. “You know how things work. It’s hard enough for a female to fit in with you macho-men!” She laughed. “I can’t leave a trail of harassment complaints behind me on the way to becoming chief!” She took a deep breath and smiled again. There would be plenty of Stevie Nelsons along the way.
“Chief constable?” Smithy laughed. “Just remember who your friends are when you reach the top, missus!”
“What’s your name again?”
“Very funny,” Smithy smiled. “Seriously though, maybe I should have a little word in his shell,” Smithy clenched his fist and laughed. “A clip around the ear is all it takes.”
“No, you fool,” she smiled. She knew he meant it, but that wasn’t the answer.
“You look really down,” he said seriously.
“Things aren’t great at the moment.” She tilted her head to one side.
“Do you want to talk?”
“Maybe later, but thanks,” she smiled again, but there was sadness in her eyes. Her partner was an idiot and on top of all that, things at home were on a downhill slide. Her partner of three months was having a crisis. She had left her husband and two children to live with Kisha, but now she wasn’t sure if she was gay or not. How could she not know? They had argued about it day in and day out for weeks, but Kisha could not understand her uncertainty. She said she wasn’t gay, she must be bi-sexual, some days she fancied Chinese food and other days she fancied Indian food. That comment had hurt Kisha deeply. How could her partner compare their love to takeaways? The situation was making life difficult, and she wasn’t sleeping properly. Kisha was tired and working with a pig like Stevie was not helping matters one bit.
“How is the list of key holders coming?” Smithy’s voice disturbed her thoughts. She could hear cups clinking in the sink as he rinsed them out. “Are you getting anywhere?”
“Slowly, needle in a haystack is crossing my mind,” Kisha shook her head and she tried to fathom what system her partner was using to enter the information. Stevie was a stubborn man and he always knew better. Kisha tried to explain her dilemma to Smithy. “I’ve been entering the names of key holders in date order, as it seems more likely that recent key holders should be the priority, but Stevie disagrees and he is insisting on entering information in alphabetical order. We’re going around in circles.”
“The system is tetchy at best, so if you’re entering the same names twice, it will cause it to crash,” Smithy said.
“It did yesterday, and we had a heated exchange,” Kisha moaned. “I don’t want to fall out with the man, but in the end I went out and interviewed some of the recent key holders on my way home and left Stevie to it.”
“You two need to sort it out before the governor finds out,” Smithy said quietly. “He won’t be pleased if you’re getting nowhere.”
“I know. Stevie must have had the same idea and given up inputting names. He has probably gone to interview some of the key holders.” At least that was what she thought.
“Call him and see where he is. Then catch up with him. Neither of you should be working on your own, you know that, Kisha,” Smithy warned.
“I know,” she said. “Thanks, Smithy. I’ll do that.”
“Do you want a chocolate biscuit with your brew?” Smithy sang the words. He always seemed to be happy no matter what was going on around him.
“No, thank you,” Kisha replied waving her finger. “I have to watch my weight.” She laughed. She didn’t have to watch her weight at all. She was one of those lucky people who could eat whatever they liked without putting on the pounds.
“I have been watching mine for years, but it just keeps going up,” Smithy chuckled. “One won’t hurt.”
“That’s the start of a slippery slope, Smithy.” Kisha smiled at him. “One leads to two and suddenly the packet is empty.”
“What do you mean?” Smithy frowned. “You cannot possibly leave any biscuits in the packet, Kisha. They go stale.”
“Spoken like a true chocoholic in denial,” she laughed. The problems at home were gone for a second. Smithy had the ability to make people laugh.
“My body is a temple, young lady. The problem is I worship the Buddha.”
“The Buddha is cool, Smithy,” she laughed. “Fat but cool.”
“So I am fat now, am I?” He frowned in mock disgust.
“No. The Buddha is fat.”
“Do you want a biscuit or what?”
“Yes, Smithy,” she grimaced and nodded her head. “I am afraid I do.”
“Just one, though.”
“Just one,” she agreed.
Kisha hit the return button on the keyboard to look at the last entry that her partner had made. Smithy clumsily put down a cup of weak brown liquid, and it splashed coffee onto her disorganised pile of names. Entries were neither in date nor alphabetical order. She couldn’t work in such a random fashion. She needed to work to a system. Stevie was holding her back. She couldn’t read his handwriting because it was so bad, which caused arguments when they were entering names into the database.
“Oops!” Smithy chuckled as he walked away. He had a biscuit between his teeth and a cup in each hand. “Sorry, Kisha.”
“Thanks for nothing, Smithy!” Kisha laughed. She reached into the bottomless pit of her handbag for a wet wipe. They were essential kit, and she never ran out. She dabbed at the spill and wiped coffee from the papers. One of the cleaners walked towards the desk to empty her wastepaper bin. They started work at stupid o’clock in the morning.
“Hi, Sue,” Kisha pushed her chair back. “Have you seen Stevie this morning?”
“You mean Slimy Steve?” Sue replied with a wicked giggle.
“Sue! You can’t call him that,” Kisha whispered.
“Bollocks,” Sue giggled. “That’s what all the girls call him. Slimy bastard he is. Anyway, he was in earlier.”
Listening to the banter, Smithy stopped and frowned. “Maybe he’s gone to see some of the people on your list. My advice is to ring him, Kisha. Then meet him somewhere.”
“Yes, I think I will.” She raised her eyebrows and smiled. Smithy got the message; she didn’t want to expand on the issue between her and her colleague in front of the cleaners. He pointed a finger to his lips and nodded.
“Say no more!” He said.
“Smithy!” Will shouted from across the office. He was pulling on his jacket in a hurry. “We have the warrant to enter Salim Oguzhan’s house.”
“Fucking hell,” Smithy put his brew down. “I’ve just made a brew.” He laughed and grabbed his coat. “Kisha, my dear, we’ll see you later.”
“Yes, see you later.” She felt her heart sink as she watched the team heading for the lifts. The rest of the team would be out there on the case while she sifted through a pile of crap. She took a mouthful of coffee and searched through the pile. Kisha sorted the five most recent key holders from the pile and then checked their addresses against the electoral role. Three of the names were still living at the listed address, and she decided to go and do some legwork. It would take her out of the stifling office for a few hours, and she needed some fresh air. If Stevie was out there knocking on doors and expecting her to sit there and input data like a secretary, then he had another think coming. She dialled his mobile number. It rang twice and then jumped to voice mail.
“Bastard has just busy buttoned me!” she whispered to herself. She grabbed her car keys, her handbag and the list with the three names on it. If he wanted to play silly buggers, then so could she. She decided to make a few enquiries on her own while she calmed down. The first name on the list was Patrick Floyd.
Dean Hines looked at his mobile phone and sighed. He had nine missed calls in total, shared between Leon and Jackson. They were stressing because he hadn’t answered their first calls. He looked up at the morning sky, tears rolling down his cheeks. There was a sick feeling in his stomach. It was the worst feeling he could ever have imagined. He felt like the situation was ripping his heart from his chest. His children were in a crisis, close to death. The night before, when he had arrived home, his wife, Denise, had been tired and in a mood. The kids – Kaylee, aged three, and Dean junior, aged five – were under the weather. They had been grumpy and unresponsive all day, but now they were feverish and floppy. When Dean had touched their hands, they had been cold despite the fever. When a rash had developed and spread quickly, he had placed a glass over the rash, but it hadn’t faded. Meningitis had struck his sister’s baby two years ago, and by the time they had diagnosed it it had been too late. He was not about to allow the same thing to happen to his kids. Denise and his children were his life, the reason he lived and breathed. Dean had telephoned an ambulance and they had been in the hospital all night. The children had deteriorated in the ambulance and their condition had not improved since. Dean had turned his phone off the first time it had rung, and he hadn’t looked at it since.
Dean knew why Leon was calling. He was expecting a huge shipment of crystal meth to arrive and Dean was supposed to collect the cash from the ‘Crazy Computer’ store and pick it up. Jackson would be calling about the hit on Jinx. He wanted the blood money. Dean didn’t want anything to do with the hit. His kids were in a critical condition in the intensive care unit. Denise was hysterical one minute, and zombielike the next. His in-laws were doing their best to support them and offer encouraging words, but right now Dean was numb. He could never have imagined the fear he felt for his children right now. The pain inside him was unbearable, and he was helpless. He couldn’t do anything to make them well or to stop their suffering. They were in the hands of the doctors and nurses who were flocking around them. From the expressions on their faces and the whispered concerns, Dean could tell the prognosis wasn’t good at all. Their fingers and toes were turning black, which they told him was a sign of septicaemia. When the doctors mentioned amputation, Dean was physically sick. He ran to the gents’ toilet and vomited until there was nothing left inside him, and then he staggered outside in a daze to get some fresh air.
He was not sure why he turned on his phone. Looking at it was a habit, he guessed. As he looked at the missed calls, it rang again. Leon’s name was flashing on the screen. Dean looked at it as it flashed, debating whether to answer it. He had to explain his predicament to his boss, or he would assume the worst. Leon had looked after him for years and despite the recent issues, he was grateful to him.
“Hi, Leon,” Dean gasped into the telephone.
“Where the fucking hell have you been?” Leon ranted. He liked to rant. “I’ve been calling you all morning.”
“I’m at the hospital, Leon,” Dean shouted to stop the tirade. “The kids were rushed in with meningitis. They’re in a bad way, Leon.”
“How long are you going to be?” Leon moaned. He jabbed a podgy finger against the dashboard of his Bentley. He was calling on hands free from London. He made sure he was out of town when a shipment came in. The plan was to stay out of town while the drugs were sold on and Jinx was shot. He didn’t need any cock-ups.
“What do you mean, how long are they going to be?” Dean was incredulous. He felt like his heart was being ripped out. His children were close to death and he needed to be with them. He lost his cool and shouted into the phone. “My kids could die, Leon. They haven’t got measles. They could die!”
“Listen, Deano,” Leon growled. “I’m in London. You’re not answering your telephone, neither is that twat Jackson, and I’m not fucking psychic!”
“Jackson has been calling me, but my phone has been off.”
“Like I said, I am not fucking psychic,” Leon calmed his voice a little. “Look, I’m sorry about your kids. I’ll get Monkey and Gareth to make the pickup, but if I can’t get hold of Jackson, then I need you to get the cash from the shop safe.”
“Fucking hell,” Dean whined. He scuffed his white Adidas training shoe against the hospital wall. “I really do not need this shit right now, Leon.”
“Just remember that it’s this shit that has been feeding your kids since they were born.” Leon sounded like he had gravel in his throat. “I will keep trying Jackson. You ring him too just in case there’s a reason why he isn’t answering the phone with me, but if we cannot reach him, you have the only set of keys. I’m in London, Dean, and empty-head Jackson is nowhere to be found. I need you to get that money out of the safe.” There was no compromise in his voice. Dean had little choice but to do as Leon asked. The drug money was under lock and key, and the importers would not wait around.
“What time do they need the money?” Dean looked at his watch. He needed to get back to the ward.
“Twelve noon at the latest,” Leon replied. He grinned at his reflection in the mirror. This was a big deal. It would net him millions and it was low risk. “Drop the money off at the McDonalds on Queen’s Drive. I’ll arrange for Monkey to meet you there. Pass the money over and fuck off back to your kids, okay?”
“Okay, but keep trying Jackson, yes?” Dean kicked the wall again in frustration. “If I haven’t heard from him by eleven, I’ll leave here.”
“Sorted,” Leon grunted.
“Yes, sorted,” Dean replied sulkily.
“I hope your kids are okay, Dean,” Leon said.
“Thanks,” Dean said as the line went dead. He pulled up Jackson’s number and pressed dial, but it clicked straight to voicemail. Something told him that Jackson wasn’t going to show.