No Time to Die_a thrilling CSI mystery Page 3

  ‘Out.’

  The door closed behind Monty.

  Her knees sagged, and she hit the floor, hands smothering her face, a child’s shriek escaping the clenched fingers, shoulders heaving.

  ‘Never,’ he whispered, ‘talk to me again.’

  And then he brought the Pooh Bear mug down on her head, and she stopped screaming quite suddenly.

  — Two —

  ‘Take me home, Monty.’

  Monty selected ‘“drive” and pulled out into the city traffic. ‘You shouldn’t let them wind you up, chief.’ Monty looked in the rear-view mirror, his brow heavy with concern. ‘You do too much for them, and how do they pay you back?’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m a soft touch.’

  ‘You gotta watch your blood pressure,’ he said. ‘You need any work doing on ’em, you come and get me; it’s why I’m here, chief. They’re taking the piss out of you. You been like a father to them.’ Monty smacked the steering wheel.

  ‘I am, I know.’

  The Grange used to be a farmhouse, back when the surrounding countryside was countryside and not rows of houses. These days, The Grange was twice the size it once was; extended by the Crosbys over the last forty years, but even now, with eight bedrooms, three lounges, reception rooms, utility rooms, a massive kitchen, a games room and a sauna, it was dwarfed by some of the houses they’d thrown up in recent years. They were like hotels, ghastly monstrosities some of them. Still, sighed Slade, even some people with stacks of cash have shit taste. Money is no guarantee of style. But, big as the house was, Slade lived either in the kitchen or in the front lounge. Months, sometimes years, would pass between visits to the other rooms. It had been Maureen’s place…and he saw fit to keep it, and to keep it as she would have liked.

  The gates rolled back on their tracks, and the driveway lit up as though guiding its owner through the last few yards until he was home from a hard day at the office.

  In fact, Slade’s day had consisted of golf in the morning, followed by two “meetings” in the afternoon, followed by a shag in the evening. The shag had resulted, probably, in someone’s death, one of the meetings definitely had resulted in someone’s death – possibly two someones – and the golf had lost him thirty-seven thousand pounds but gained him a new acquaintance on Leeds City Council. Money very well spent. Slade had more pies than he had fingers. But that was fine, because inside the house, he had another twenty fingers to go at.

  They belonged to Tyler and Blake Crosby. Tyler would be king when Slade turned his toes up; not just because he was the elder by two years, but because he had the brains and the ruthlessness needed to run things. He had the respect of those who worked for the family and, crucially, of its enemies too. Whereas Blake, although not exactly stupid, was just too immature to wear his dad’s crown. And he was soft. He got involved because he was told to get involved, and he did ruthless things because he was told to be ruthless. Left to his own devices, he would probably pay off someone when he should have killed them and kill someone when he should have paid them off. He struggled with the intricacies of the role, struggled with politics and diplomacy, something Slade had in abundance, or so he liked to think.

  Rachel was the oddity. She had nothing to do with the business. She knew what went on, and she distanced herself from their seedy activities as though getting too close might infect her holier-than-thou pride with something incurable: wealth.

  The BMW silently glided to a halt before the pillared doorway. Monty shut the motor down, and Slade looked across the turning circle and saw a silver Mercedes and a black Range Rover. ‘Ah,’ he smiled, ‘they’re back.’

  Across the turning circle, and largely out of sight from The Grange, was another house. It was a lot smaller; some of the staff lived there when they needed to stay close. And because it was well hidden, it was a good place to hide in too; had its own self-contained cellar fitted out just in case. So far, it had never been used; that “just in case” had never materialised. But Slade was a planner, always had been and always would be.

  The staff house was the gathering place. It was where Slade mingled with his trusted people. It was where he had a laugh with the lads, and it was where the deals were sorted, the payments made, and the plans planned. And it was where Slade hobbled to when he got out of the car, his walking stick kicking up gravel. Monty locked the BMW and walked at Slade’s side.

  ‘Have you heard anything?’

  ‘Nah,’ Monty said.

  Slade opened the door and walked into the kitchen. The new man, Jagger, was filling the kettle. ‘Know how I take my tea?’

  Jagger turned off the tap. He looked at Slade Crosby and just nodded. ‘Boss.’ And then to Monty, ‘You want one?’

  ‘Coffee. No sugar.’

  Slade headed into the lounge where Blake sat on the bare floorboards – legs outstretched, feet crossed, whisky nestled in his lap – and smiled up at the old man. ‘Well?’ asked Slade.

  ‘I felt her neck snap.’

  Ste and Pikey giggled, and Tyler shook his head and took the tissue away from his nose. ‘I keep telling him, her fucking neck didn’t snap; it was her hyoid cartilage.’

  ‘It was her neck!’ The smile had gone.

  Tyler held out a hand ‘Okay, okay, it was her neck.’

  ‘Never mind all that,’ said Slade. ‘Did you do it right?’ He looked at Tyler, saw the bloodied tissue. ‘What happened to you?’

  Monty kicked Ste off the scratched leather chair, consigning him to one of the uncomfortable dining chairs scattered around the periphery of the small, smoky room. Pikey chose not to be kicked out of his seat, but instead stood up and nodded at Slade, then joined Blake on the floor with a fresh bottle of beer and lit a cigarette.

  ‘It went according to plan, Dad,’ said Tyler. ‘Apart from a bust nose.’

  ‘Why, what happened?’

  ‘I was holding him while The Boston Strangler there did his stuff…’

  Blake gave him the finger.

  ‘…And he nutted me. Thrashing about like a fucking fish on a dock. It bled like a bastard on the way back here. But apart from that, it went fine.’

  ‘Hope so, boy.’ Slade eased himself into the chair, hooked the walking stick over the back of a dining chair and took a cigarette from the packet on the low table next to him. ‘Hope so,’ he said again.

  Jagger walked in and handed out the drinks to Monty and Slade, then went back for Ste and Blake’s. He tried to blend in by sliding down the wall and stretching out on the floor, cigarette in hand.

  ‘Names. Did he give any names?’

  Tyler nodded and then slid a glance at Jagger.

  ‘Fuck off, Tyler,’ Blake shouted. ‘I said he was okay, didn’t I?’

  Slade palmed Blake’s protests.

  ‘Dad, he’s either in or he’s out. Make your mind up.’

  Slade sipped tea, looked at Jagger.

  Jagger shrugged and stood up. ‘Suit yourself. I’ll get my coat. You can mail my money.’

  ‘Monty, give him the keys to her apartment.’

  Jagger looked at Monty. ‘Whose apartment?’

  ‘Tanya,’ Slade said. ‘Or whatever her name is.’

  Monty threw a set of keys at Jagger. ‘Waterfront View. Entry number is 1066. Flat is number 89.’

  ‘Apartment!’

  ‘Apartment 89. Go make sure she’s okay.’

  Jagger stood. ‘And what if she isn’t okay?’

  ‘Ring me,’ Slade snapped.

  Jagger was almost at the door, when Slade called him back.

  ‘Don’t worry ’bout this.’ He half nodded to the room. ‘You’ll be in when the time is right. Okay?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And then get off home. Be back here tomorrow at noon; you’ve got some shopping to do for a job.’

  — Three —

  Jagger stood still as the lift doors opened. There was no activity downstairs or even outside the flats. But he took his time anyway; listening, watching.
He exited the lift and turned right, checking for those black-eyed security cameras that seemed to be in every building these days. He walked swiftly up the carpeted corridor with purpose, as though he’d been here a thousand times before, glancing at the door numbers rolling by. At number 89, he faced the door and listened again. Nothing.

  He knocked lightly and was rewarded with nothing again.

  So far, so good.

  And then he turned the key, stood aside and opened the door, expecting a bullet to hit the wall opposite. Slade and the gang had given no indication that he was disliked; no indication even that he wasn’t trusted – except for the names thing, whatever that was all about, but he still needed to be careful. Being fresh in a crew was a dangerous place to be until you earned their trust. Checking on the girl, he hoped, would be part of that ritualistic entry to the Trusted Club. An initiation of sorts.

  No bullet.

  Jagger cautiously entered the flat, and as soon as he was near the kitchen, he could see a pair of naked legs. Already, he didn’t like this.

  She was lying face down, her blonde hair turned red by her own blood. Nearby, a smashed pottery mug, one of those thick ones that would cause a shit-load of damage if it hit you on the head. ‘Bastard,’ he whispered. And then he went to turn her over. Her face made him grimace. ‘Why the fuck…’ Her left eyelid was blistered, and all the left side of her face was red like she’d been half in the oven at 200 degrees for an hour. ‘Poor kid.’

  So far as he could tell, all the blood was from a scalp injury, and they always bled like hell. She appeared okay, apart from that, and the face of course. She had a pulse, regular and fairly strong, and as he watched her, her lips moved slightly, and a string of saliva fell from the corner of her mouth.

  Okay, time to ring Slade, who would want her fixing up by some doctor he had on his books. Or… Wait a minute. He’s scarred her face; he knows she’s damaged goods now, he knows she will bring in pence now where she should have brought in pounds.

  There would be no doctor.

  Okay, decision time.

  Jagger made sure the door was locked and then sat on the settee with his phone to his ear, looking at the sorry piece of shit on the floor.

  — Four —

  ‘So, who are they?’

  Ste shrugged, and Monty looked at Blake and Tyler. Blank faces.

  ‘Never heard of them,’ said Pikey.

  Slade ignored the rest of the tea and knocked back a Pernod. ‘They must work under operational names.’

  ‘Well, Tony Pearson did.’ This from Tyler. ‘He used a false name with us. I checked his house out; he has mail addressed to Tony Lambert.

  ‘Okay,’ Slade said, ‘when Wasp gets here tomorrow, you have him nip across to his mate in Harehills, see if those names mean anything to Shylock’s crew.’

  ‘Okay,’ Tyler said.

  And then Slade’s phone rang. He nodded at Monty, who reached across the table and answered for him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s me, Jagger.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She’s dead. Want me to ditch her and clean this place up?’

  Monty looked at Slade. ‘The girl’s dead.’

  Slade tutted and finished his Pernod.

  ‘Yeah, do that. Where you taking her?’

  ‘There’s a place I know up in Otley; she’ll never be found.’

  ‘Right, good. Here, how you gonna get her out of the flat?’

  ‘Apartment!’ Slade shouted.

  Monty nodded an apology.

  ‘She’s tiny. Easily fit in one of the cushion covers off the leather sofa.’

  Monty laughed. ‘Like it. See you at noon.’

  He pressed end and slid the phone back on the table. ‘He seems okay, does that Jagger.’

  ‘Think so?’ Tyler stood and arched his back. He took a can of lager from a six-pack and swigged it in one.

  ‘And you don’t, I suppose?’ Blake looked at Tyler. ‘Why don’t you like him? Every time I introduce someone, you have to–’

  ‘Shut up, you prick. Nothing to do with who introduced him.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘He’s too reserved.’ Tyler looked around the room, and suddenly everyone laughed, even Slade, who threw the Pernod glass at him. It was a poor shot, and Tyler didn’t have to move. He smiled at his dad, but said, ‘Seriously. I mean we don’t know who the three people are that Tony mentioned; how do we know he ain’t a copper?’

  Slade stopped laughing. ‘Because I fucking checked!’ Slade was on his feet, heading for Tyler on shaky legs.

  ‘Well, Tony was one; didn’t check him out too well, did you?’

  Monty yelled, ‘Watch your lip, Ty!’

  ‘How do you think I sussed him out?’ Slade grabbed Tyler by the arm and drew him close. ‘Don’t fucking cross me, boy,’ he growled. ‘You’re too old to go over my knee, but there are other ways… D’ya get my meaning?’

  Tyler swallowed.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Slade eventually smiled, ‘Good lad,’ and patted him on the arm. ‘Now get me some more Pernod.’ He returned to his seat. ‘Anyway, Jagger’s done time in Parkhurst. Know what for?’ Slade turned and saw a row of blank faces. ‘He’s done time for cash-in-transit robberies. Six of ’em. And he knows his way around cash machines too.’

  6

  Eddie stared at her for a long time.

  She was beautiful, and for a fleeting moment, she reminded him of Ros. But it seemed every woman reminded him of Ros these days. And actually, it wasn’t for a fleeting moment at all; it was for a good minute or two. And that was a long time when you were standing in a woman’s bedroom gazing down at her like a fool, wondering what might have been.

  Outside in the street below, there was turbulence, car doors slamming and people talking loudly. The noise brought Eddie round again. He unfolded his arms and walked from the room, leaving the woman with the trail of blood from her nostrils, frozen against her pallid skin, drying on the crisp white pillow, like a scream at prayer time.

  He returned to the landing, took up his customary stance on a stepping plate and stared at the woman’s husband. The husband stared back, a questioning look on his face, yet a resigned, almost pitiful look in his eyes. He had strong hands, Eddie noted, big hands with thick fingers; plenty strong enough to strangle his wife and then hang himself.

  But, of course, he hadn’t.

  Eddie’s radio bleeped loudly, and it made him jump. It made him angry. He tore a ragged hole in the side of the plastic scene suit and yanked the damned thing off its clip, pressed the button and said, ‘Go away.’

  ‘Eddie, it’s McCain. Can you talk?’

  He took a breath. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ve done it before.’

  ‘I’ve got some news on the suicide.’

  Whoopee, he thought. ‘It’s not a suicide.’

  ‘Listen, there’s someone on their way over to see you. And I’ll be–’

  ‘Who? Who’s coming over? I’m busy!’

  ‘Will you listen for just–’

  Eddie took the battery from the radio and tossed both parts down the stairs. After they thudded against the front door, silence came back to him. He closed his eyes and tried to get back to where he had been. He looked again at the marks on the laminate floor and wondered if they’d develop with aluminium powder, or white powder maybe. He was about to turn and head down the stairs for his kit when the front door opened and the radio and its battery grazed an arc across the floor.

  Eddie looked at the man and heard the noise from outside louder now, intrusive. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  The man, dressed in a white scene suit the same as Eddie’s, closed the door, dropped a kit box on the ground and smiled up at Eddie. ‘I’m here to relieve you.’

  Eddie blinked. ‘That’s very kind of you but I’m a little busy right now.’

  He wore his hair like an American Marine, right down to the wood, and he wore a grin too with per
fect teeth, one that said he was humouring Eddie, one that said he knew all about Eddie’s ways, that he’d been prepared for them. ‘Funny.’ The grin stayed put, and the perfect teeth grew more perfect. ‘Come on down, Eddie.’

  ‘What is this, The Price is Right?’

  The grin levelled out a bit, the eyes narrowed.

  ‘This is my scene, and I say who comes in here–’

  ‘Not anymore.’

  ‘Where’re you from?’ Eddie began a slow descent.

  ‘Major Crime. Name’s James Whitely.’

  ‘This is logged as a suicide. So, what’s MCU doing here?’

  ‘Ah,’ Whitely shrugged. ‘Can’t tell you.’

  ‘Then you’d best fuck off.’ Eddie made it to the bottom step, stood a foot taller than Whitely, and folded his arms.

  ‘Your boss was supposed–’

  ‘Well, he didn’t, so get your arse–’

  ‘He probably tried,’ said Whitely. ‘But it looks like you dropped your radio.’ He bent and collected the radio, slid the battery back on and powered it up. ‘Here.’ He handed it over. ‘Butter fingers.’

  ‘You’re not here because it’s a suicide; you’re here because of who he is.’ Eddie snatched the radio. ‘So, who is he, then?’ He nodded up the stairs.

  ‘Sorry, can’t tell you.’

  ‘That means he’s either a politician or a copper.’

  A slight glint in Whitely’s eyes.

  Eddie nodded. ‘Copper, then.’

  ‘Look, Eddie–’

  ‘PSD on their way too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’d best pretend you know what you’re doing here, then.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ The grin had vanished completely now, replaced instead by a slight look of trepidation.

  ‘You’ll find out, Mr MCU man.’ Eddie entered the lounge, grabbed his camera kit and forensic case and was stopped by Whitely in the hall.

  ‘Eddie, what will I find out?’

  ‘You think you’re here for a twenty-minute suicide, right?’