“I just had a pee that took so long, I got bored half way through” Seamus announced to the empty kitchen. It was the consequence of an over 50s version of an ‘all-nighter’, i.e. not having to get up and go to the toilet during the night.
He switched the kettle on to start the morning routine after the momentous occasion, Jees it made him sound like talking about his kids when they were babies. The kettle’s sound drowned out his thoughts for a moment as his focus moved from sleep to the day ahead; what would be going on at the office, how much extra paperwork might have piled up on his desk over the weekend. ‘Click’ – he was snapped back into the present with the kettle’s unsubtle notification that his water was ready, so he pottered across the kitchen barefoot to attend to the most important task.
Strong black coffee and toast, preferably not the same colour as the coffee. Although this morning it’s just coffee because somehow the knob in the toaster has moved and it’s come out the wrong side of destroyed and is destined for the bin. One sweetener in the coffee and the crumbs from toastageddon neatly cleaned up and deposited in the bin too, Seamus prefers to keep a clean house. He flicks on the TV to see what was happening in the world before a quick shower and dressing for work. Usual shite on the news, weather looks awful, some distant conflict and a bunch of whingey folks on some subject or other, nothing local to note. Should be a reasonable day, if a little quiet like pretty much all of them were these days, since his move here. He has managed to not have to work weekends lately, so the old place and its demanding workload was frankly better as a memory than his new reality. All part of the new Seamus, making time for himself away from work and hopefully making more progress towards demonstrating he can be more than just the job.
Due to the toast incident there was a gap where his breakfast should have been, but thankfully, via the slightest of detours he passes a Greggs on his way to the office. He parks just around the corner after scanning the streets for a suitable spot and joins the usual out of the door queue, thankfully that for the first time it what seems like weeks, it’s not raining.
Another benefit of having moved here is that his mind is clearer, he isn’t encumbered with constant work-based distractions, pulling his attention away from the task in hand, in this case using his time in the queue to decide on whether a bap or baguette would be the vessel of choice for his sausages and bacon. No question on the sauce though, brown all the way.
A short time later he is in the car on the way to the office, coffee in the cup holder and croissant crumbs across his lap and moaning about every other person on the road, why can’t they drive properly, can they even see – the usual morning complaints.
Somehow when he got to the front of the queue, the freshly cooked croissants that had just been placed on the counter were too good to pass up, so two of them and a large black coffee found their way into his car, probably better than a mass of processed meats and a big stick of bread, although much less contained in terms of their ability to cover every surface.
“Morning!” came the booming voice of Jim Pallister from across the office, “French breakfast again there?”. Seamus took a look down at his clothes, he was part pastry to be fair, that stuff really does get everywhere, to the extent he was considering how many calories he had actually consumed versus how many were still attached to his crotch.
He missed nothing, that man, nothing where food was involved anyway. “why, did you want to hoover up my crumbs Jim?” Seamus replied without the slightest hint of a smile “and stop looking at my crotch”. Jim simply grunted in recognition of this response and continued his meander to the group of desks that he and Seamus usually occupied. Seamus sauntered to one of the desks and fell into a chair with a sigh, another day of this shitty case. “Jim, did you get anything from the old fella in the market?”.
Jim shrugged a negative reply “nah, he can’t remember his own name, never mind what happened last month, I mean he’s probably more pickled than Desmond Hirst’s pet shark”. “Damien” Seamus corrected him. “Who now?”.
Over the last month the two men and their wider team have been investigating a series of reports pertaining to market sellers, where the prevailing thread related to underage workers, and one informally obtained statement from a stalwart of the markets alluded to ‘foreign lads telling me they don’t get paid’, so they needed to get hold of this guy to follow up and get more details, and in a more formal manner.
“Never mind, so we still have no witness statement, no evidence gathered and the boss riding us for answers on a case that has less weight than a vegan bikini model. What’s the poi…”. He was interrupted by the phone ringing, “DCI Corrigan, can I…”
His face turned pale, his eyes going from their usual blue to a steel grey, a deep frown gathering across his forehead. “what do you…” he stuttered out then winced, shook his head slowly then began to regain colour until he was almost scarlet.
“WTF?” Jim mouthed at him…
Seamus put the phone down, shaking slightly and now ashen again.
“It’s Wilson, he’s been found up at Sykes farm and, he’s, ummmm….in boxes”. Jim just stared at him in disbelief for almost a minute, “Are they sure it’s him?” Jim asked, eyebrows hitting his hairline “I mean he was only here on Wednesday, his irritating cocky self, parading about the place with his usual swagger”
Reg Wilson was the guy the term ‘serial offender’ had been created for, he’d been in the station more times than most of the coppers, so much so he almost had a loyalty card.
“Yeah, definitely him – the first team onsite recognised his face straight away, even though it was, Christ I can’t believe this….it was in a box” said Seamus, turning very pale at the mental image he now had, thinking of those response officers arriving on scene and seeing that.
It’s bad enough when a more seasoned officer is first on scene, or even just attending once the victim has been discovered, but he is thinking of the impact this will inevitably have. Discovering a dead body is one thing, that first one never leaves you – looking at a person who is no longer alive and coming to terms with that is something you never forget, and you do have to try to desensitise yourself to it otherwise the job becomes unbearable, but a person, in boxes, that’s a whole other level.
Reg was just a petty criminal, car theft mostly, no real aggro, never anything physical, just a pain in everyone’s arse and a bit of menace on the roads during his joyrides while antagonising the Roads Policing Unit. But he knew the system and was happy to spend the odd night it the cells and get a good breakfast out of it. He’d never paid a single fine despite having many thousands levied against him, he’d smile at the custody sergeant, he’d nod in court while his charges were read out like he was having his experience played back to him in an interview and then in no time at all, he was back in someone else’s car giving the traffic guys a run around the streets.
“What do you mean, boxes?”. Chief Superintendent Dawn Bowler almost spat out. “Plastic boxes ma’am ,seven of them with various parts in each, different sizes and the kind you put stuff into to keep dry, just laid out on the ground, but the one with his head in” Seamus paused as he mentally processed what he had just said “had some odd writing on it, ‘I’ve saved you all’ then some numbers, followed by ‘You’re welcome’. The CSIs have taken some photos”
Jim took his phone out and showed Bowler the photos he had been sent from the scene.
Seamus looked at them again, not really able to make much sense of the situation, while Bowler, seeing them for the first time was trying to understand how Reg Wilson, petty car thief and irritation of the RPU team had ended up as a human jigsaw.
“You and Jim get over there as soon as you can please, let me know what you find, and catch up with Bina and see if her and the team have anything yet” said Bowler, still staring at the space where Jim’s phone had just been, displaying the unbelievable images.
“Seems like he may have stolen the wrong car this time” she suggested, to which Seamus nodded distractedly trying to work through possibilities.
“Yeah, maybe. Do we know the last few vics who lost their cars to him recently? We ought to start there, since he’s never been into drugs, nor actually hurt anyone so this just looks like this is revenge, although it’s pretty extreme for a bit of metal” Jim thought out loud.
It was now Seamus’s turn to nod slowly and thoughtfully “We’ll get there within the hour ma’am and let you know what’s going on”
Even though Reg was a royal pain in the forces backside and, annoying as he was, he didn’t deserve that. Chopped up and put in boxes is off the scale for some small-time guy, well anyone really and Seamus couldn’t help thinking – what did he stumble into?
The drive over was used to try to work through a few scenarios. Fortunately, mid-morning traffic was light as Jim was distracted in thoughts of what he’d seen and what they were going to expect when they arrived. Who and why were the key questions, but neither Seamus nor Jim had got to anything concrete by the time they arrived at Syke’s.
“I’m still not sold on this being something like mistaken identity” said Seamus when they got out of the car. “Maybe Wilson just has, well had, ‘that look’ you know, and just got caught up in the cross-fire” Jim added. “This is a weird place too, why here? This place is in the middle of nowhere, and Wilson’s name has never had any connection to here, so what’s the story – I don’t get it”. Seamus’s brow was deeply furrowed, and he looked around slowly, taking in the wider scene before walking any further.
Both men walked towards the cordoned off area to the site officer that Seamus noticed as they drove in. She looked a little unsteady, that anyone outside the force may have put down to having been on her feet for a while, but Seamus recognised that look on her face and realised she must have been one of the first ones to attend. They signed their names into the log and ducked under the tape surrounding the scene, but before walking further Seamus made eye contact and gave a slight nod and smile, enough to let PC Gregory know he understood.
And there they were, seven plastic boxes with parts of a person in them – neither man had ever witnessed anything quite like it before. They had both seen dead bodies, the victims of a stabbing, the ones who had succumbed to an untimely death by natural causes or the odd accident, but this was extreme. The macabre scene took a moment or two to really process, it was so abstract to see body parts in clear plastic boxes, just assembled on the ground like that – head at one end, feet at the other.
“Christ!” Jim almost choked. “I mean, that’s just, fucking hell….it’s” and he blew air out of pursed lips, a curious look on his face that fluctuated between disgust, curiosity and shock. They stood there for what felt like an eternity just looking at what used to be Reg Wilson, petty crook, bit of dick but mostly harmless and now in bits in plastic tubs on an old farm.
Seamus walked slowly closer to the arranged boxes, noticed that there was no smell, not the usual sweet and slightly metallic smell of blood, the unmistakable stench of decay, nothing at all. “These must be good boxes, you know – good seals on the lids, not cheap shite, nothing is leaking out”. Jim just nodded from a few feet away, still struggling with the scene in front of him. Seamus carefully and thoughtfully walked around the display, bending to get a better view of the contents. What he thought was odd was the Reg still had some clothes on, not that Seamus was particularly experienced in the discovery of folks chopped to bits and stuffed into plastic boxes, but there had been plenty of reports of mutilations in his old place, and all of them were naked. Probably made it easier to chop up if you can see where you need to cut, he considered while staring at one of the larger boxes with what was once Reg’s torso inside.
The box with Reg’s head in it had some writing on, just like the CSI had reported from the site earlier, and Seamus bent over a little more to read it. ‘I’ve saved you all £5,5??, you’re welcome’. The writing did appear to suggest that whoever had put Reg into this state had saved someone some money. Some of the characters were not clear, could have been £5.5k, maybe more but the message was certainly about money saved. The question is, who has saved the money for whom? Was it a message to someone who had ordered this to be done, and the killer had done it on the cheap, or was it a final note to Reg, or to someone else? But that wasn’t what caught Seamus’s eye. The CSIs had been instructed to leave the boxes as they were, so this is exactly as they had been laid out by whoever had put them there. Aside from Reg’s clothes being mostly present, there was something that wasn’t. His thumbs were missing.
All the effort to cut up the body, keep most of the clothes on, including his shoes, put everything into different boxes, but then remove the thumbs – maybe they were in the bottom of one of the other boxes. Seamus took some time and peered around them all, but couldn’t see them. “Jim, get over here. See if you can find his thumbs” said Seamus, in a tone even he didn’t recognise.
Jim looked up, clearly lost in his thoughts “What?” he asked, uncertain as to whether he had misheard or just couldn’t quite correlate the question with the bizarre array he had been looking at. “His thumbs, Jim – they’re missing”. Jim’s face went from thoughtful to confused in a heartbeat. “What, what do you mean, like in a box or something, or just gone?” asked Jim, still in a slight daze. “I don’t know, I can’t see them anywhere” Seamus said, with an air of detachment still in his voice.
He called Bowler to apprise her of the situation “Chief, it’s definitely Reg and the message looks very much like something to do with money, but I think we need to get this lot into the lab and start looking at this in more detail”. Bowler was quiet for a moment, “Your call Seamus, but the sooner the better please, this is still low key for now, but I have a feeling it won’t stay like it for long”. She let out a long breath “Poor Reg”
He ended the call and walked over to Bina Mistry, the lead Forensics officer. “Bina, can we get these boxes down the road and see what’s going on?” Bina smiled thinly “I thought you’d never ask” she said and gestured to the team who got to work getting Reg into their van. “You ever seen anything like this?” asked Seamus to Bina, keen to get her take. She scanned the scene in front of her and sighed slightly, clearly affected by such an horrific way to display this kind of work. “Not like this” she said quietly, slowly shaking her head, but due to the mask she was wearing it was hard to see the look of sadness on her face.
Bina had been doing this job for over 12 years and had attended some scenes that would shock anyone, and whilst she had acclimatised herself to seeing what others were capable of, there were extreme cases that took a lot more to contemplate. This was definitely one of those. She didn’t know Reg, never even heard of him, but the way he had been dealt with, and that was the only way she could really see this, was violence beyond the spectrum her and the team would usually see.
“Gov, we’ve got the boxes loaded and are heading down to the lab, we’ve got site photos of everything in-situ, we’ve got some initial swabs, and ground shots so if it’s OK, we’ll get going”. Bina had a way with her patients, as she called them, never offhand, never any humour at their expense, they were still people and they had a story to tell her, and she respected them throughout their time together. “Thanks Henry, please take care of him, drive carefully and I’ll see you down there” she said to her team lead.
“Thanks Bina” said Seamus, and away they went to take Reg, in his seven boxes, to the lab.
It was just another day as far as Adrian was concerned, another day at work, another day when he came home to his family and they ate together while sharing stories of what each had been up to. His kids telling him of their day at school, not so much about their lessons, but more about the other kids, the break times and conversations that took place. Who is now going out with who, and which of the teachers looked like they had been out drinking all weekend. It was a different world to when he was at school, tennis ball football, kiss chase and tag. He smiled as he listened to what was important to them, and never undermined it. He asked them questions that were related to what they were talking about, didn’t patronise them and instead encouraged them to be confident to talk about anything at all.
His wife Lisa had been busy both at work and at home, and he wasted no time recognising this, and making sure she knew her efforts were valued. Her job was something she really enjoyed, the hours worked for school, and it gave her real satisfaction being part of something outside the home. Not that she wasn’t happy there, not at all, it was a close home and she knew she was surrounded by those who appreciated and loved each other.
Lasagne tonight, his favourite and something that took some time to prepare. He walked across the kitchen and gave Lisa a gentle squeeze and a peck on the cheek “You are wonderful” he whispered. There was also a nice glass of red wine to go with it – he didn’t really care that it was Argentinian and not Italian, he wasn’t a wine snob, he just thought it was a nice accompaniment to the meal, and very welcome after quite a busy day. He’d dabbled with trying to learn more about wine a few years back, got a few bottles from here and there and tried to determine their make-up, but all he really got when holding the glass to his nose was the smell of, well, wine. So, rather than try to keep up any pretence that he had the vaguest idea of different grapes or fruits added to the mix and when others in the group had groaned a little too many times about his ‘ooohh, I’m getting Athletes nostril’ jokes, he just accepted that he was partial to the odd glass of red and that was that.
Tonight’s was nice though, quite smooth so must have been one of the more expensive ones, so at least £7? Yes, that was what counted as a more expensive bottle at the Burch household, not the world’s biggest spenders – not that they didn’t have money, just that they would rather use it for more important things. Adrian still bought most of his new clothes from a supermarket, and the nicer items were more often than not second hand, either from eBay or Vinted or some app or other. Lisa was much the same, one of the many things that brought them, then kept them together. Neither was particularly extravagant, and neither bothered by the Jones’ – they could have what they wanted, we have what we need.
After dinner he washed up after stacking most of the stuff into the dishwasher. He usually did the washing up if Lisa cooked, always when he cooked so that Lisa didn’t need to add anything else to her day. She worked hard and didn’t deserve to be expected to do household chores as well as everything else. They both settled into the living room while the kids vanished, probably into their bedrooms to watch something on TV, or play online or whatever made them content. For Adrian it was the usual evening diet of police documentaries – Interceptor repeats, the Traffic Cops, always breaking their backs to apprehend these arseholes only to see them the following week or month doing exactly the same thing, like their brush with the law was just that, a passing glance. He was never sure why he kept watching these things, it only annoyed him that so many people had so little respect, not just for each other, but for the police. Where did that come from? These men and women who have dedicated themselves to our safety, just treated with such contempt. All the time, the effort, the stress to get these scumbags off the streets and for what? Millions of tax pounds every year down the drain he thought, as they would be back out there doing the same thing the next day, and the police would have to catch them again, by the fourth or fifth time, they had a certain swagger about them, and arrogance that could only come from knowing that they will get away with it. Again.
More recently he had started on the many forensic series, how the science plays it part in detection of criminals, all these people involved in each stage of the process, and again, to see their efforts wasted as the human rubbish walks free to repeat the same steps, how do they stay sane? These programs fascinated him. He loved science, he had been good at it at school and maintained a lifelong interest in aspects of it, which probably explained how he had ended up in IT. He would use that expression when asked about what he did, “Oh, I just ended up in it” he would say, and would simply say he ‘worked in IT’ rather than go into any detail. He used to until he could see people’s eyes glaze over, so just left it there, it was easier not to try to explain it.
“I don’t know how they don’t just chuck them in a big hole in the ground and cover it up, like landfill” he says after an episode featuring multiple persistent repeat offenders, and Lisa looks at him the way only a wife could, a combination of resignation mixed with a little pity. She offers a faint smile and returns to Facebook.
He shrugs and carries on watching as the team on another documentary talk about cell site identification and how it allows the police to locate people and track their routes, and even using built in vehicle tracking now available on a lot of modern cars – you can’t move without someone somewhere knowing about it. ‘we were able to identify each of the group by their mobile phones, not just from the calls made and messages sent between them, but from the cell analysis to show where they met up before the theft, to where they hid the vehicle and how they dispersed when the police arrived’. Amazing, thought Adrian – but I bet they won’t get charged, lack of evidence or some similar rubbish, and even if they do it will be a driving ban and a slap on the wrist.
“Are you coming to bed?” Lisa says for the third time from the stairs. “Sorry, I was miles away” Adrian replies – “Yes, I’ll be right up”.
So, no phone, older car, generic shoes in a generic size, and clothes that don’t stand out seem to be the go-to wardrobe of choice for the criminal about town this season, he thinks to himself as the TV show does a recap of the evidence they found that finally led them to the suspect. I wonder how many of these career criminals actually watch these shows, they must be able to learn something from them?
Adrian mulls this over for a while as he swills the last of his wine around in the glass. Anyway, Lisa’s waiting upstairs and seemed quite playful, must have been the wine, but even so, there could be a nice night ahead unless she’s fallen asleep already, so he rushes up to check and sees that she is very much awake, and looking every inch the seductress she can be when the mood, or level of alcohol dictates.
May, 2019
It had only been six weeks since he had to move out as things were, how did she put it, untenable between them. She blamed him, he blamed himself or more accurately his work, but ultimately himself. There was only so much he could blame on the job, hard as it was, but he was offered support but chose not to accept it, he was moved to a different team over the last few years but still he didn’t really seem able to leave the noise in the office.
He’d seen people do unspeakable things to other people, he’d had to unpick vile cases, interview people with no decency or consideration, bare faced liars, those that we happy to twist everything to help them attempt to get away with some of the worst behaviours.
These past weeks though made all he had seen and dealt with out there pale into insignificance, the terror he felt now was so much more than he had ever experienced while hunting a criminal, and the fear was unimaginable.
She was right to do it of course, but that didn’t make it any easier, nor that they had reached some sort of agreement between them, mainly as what was best for the girls, but in reality, what was best for all of them. He was unbearable all the time, you couldn’t talk to him and he wasn’t much of a talker either so there was no chance to get to the bottom of it, so it festered away until she simply had to put some space between them.
But despite all the discussions and the nodding he hadn’t taken it well when it finally happened, when they actually separated and he ended up in a flat by himself while she stayed in the house with the girls.
His whole world imploded that day.
The days that followed were darker than any others he could remember, the sense of loss and lack of meaning were all encompassing. One day a husband and father, in the house with his family, going on holidays together, well sometimes, and sharing a bed, a breakfast table and a sofa. The next, staring at the side of the bed, a different bed in a different room in a different house. An empty bed. No sleeping wife beside him, no kids running in to wake him up, no cereal to clean up from the worktop, no sounds of a family home, just the abyss of loneliness.
Sleep was elusive despite his utter exhaustion, even the level of depression he had become enveloped by had no impression on his ability to get any rest, which is most likely the reason that it happened.
The op had been difficult to start with, a lot of preparation and a lot of hours to spend on surveillance to understand the routine and the habits of their targets. Weeks of focused efforts, pushing the whole team to their limits of patience and tolerance with each other, Seamus being almost unapproachable. Too much time cramped into small rooms, vehicles and places not conducive to comfort, but necessary to get the results they needed. Night shifts, day shifts, weekends and any and every available hour consumed, to make sure the operation was watertight. They were not going to let this group slip through their fingers this time.
Their main target was a key player in the wider drug game in the county, he had led them on a merry dance for months, moving product and people around so his location was always changing, always a step ahead. It got so bad Seamus had become convinced there was a mole in the team, it was too much of a coincidence that just when a raid was planned, they would receive intelligence that the target location was empty and the team would have to stand down, again.
But that night, everything had lined up. No updates to suggest they were anywhere else, no intel that the product had been moved, everything was ready. Everything that was, except for Seamus.
Five days without sleep and his mind in turmoil was not ever going to lead to a good result. The team needed their leader to assert the necessary authority and keep the operation on plan and keep everyone focused, it all came down to this – the pinnacle of months of hard work and let downs and their DCI was to be front and centre. But he was not present, not mentally or emotionally, just physically.
As the night went on, the wider team swept the site, picked up some less important members, seized as much product as they found, and kept the control room updated. They worked through the plan as it had been presented back at the HQ, each breakout team executing their specific role. The net was closing and he was cornered, and it seemed it was his last night on the scene, all Seamus had to do was block his exit.
Hours later, when they found Seamus they thought he was dead. Unresponsive and crumpled at the doorway to the building, he was cold to the touch and covered in blood.
He remembered the ambulance, the shouts from the paramedics and his DI, but little else. He didn’t remember Baciu leaning over him, the knife in his hand and being told he was a marked man now, he could never escape, never hide from his fate.
The next two days in hospital were a haze of busy medical staff, the odd police officer checking in on him and the noises around the ward, but nothing to really provide answers. He lay in the bed trying to organise the thoughts and images swimming around his head, trying to find something to focus on that might explain why he was there, and what was going on. The food was appalling, that much he had been aware of.
By the time he was discharged to his empty flat a few gaps had been filled, some by colleagues, others by his own mind. His main issue was whether he could trust his own recollections, whether it was from exhaustion, pain relief or trauma Seamus really didn’t know what was real. He could hear the voices over the radio, giving updates on his location, the status of each sub-team and the feeling that things were finally going right. He could see the door, the cars beyond and the shouts from the those chasing their quarry towards him and then they were face to face.
His first opportunity to sleep in what felt like weeks had been shattered, he sat up in bed covered in sweat and – yes, he was crying.
His tears caught him by surprise, it wasn’t like Seamus to cry or show any emotion but clearly the events of the past few days, layered onto his new living arrangements had cut a hole through his usual wall. There was nobody there to offer any comfort, the girls would not burst through the door with pictures they had created, and his wife wouldn’t come to check he was OK. He had never felt so alone in his life, and the tears burned his eyes and they would not relent.
He didn’t dare close his eyes, partly because of the absolute darkness that enveloped him and partly because that face was always there, but he couldn’t understand the expression on it, the look in those eyes, was it anger, hatred or fear?
Chapter 2 – Present day
The pathology lab attached to the city general hospital had recently been refurbished and had a feel of an ultra-modern facility about it, gleaming walls, lots of stainless steel and LED lighting that left no shadows, wherever you stood. Although even with all that investment and hard work that smell was still there, the cloying odour of chemicals that were only ever associated with death.
Bina was really pleased with the work; her and the team had actually been consulted on what they felt was really needed and she had been required to attend some of the meetings where the overall project had been discussed. It was great to actually be part of the process as well as to be able to see first-hand the bureaucracy that her senior leadership had to deal with in order to get anything done. It made her appreciate their efforts a great deal more.
The old lab was not really conducive to the team size or working patterns, and for some time now Bina had worried about potential issues seeping into their results. Walls were starting to crumble, the ceilings were showing signs of damage and the equipment really wasn’t quite at the standard it should be.
But now, with all the new gear and the way the place had been setup there was a real feel of renewed energy and professionalism about the place. Bina had been part of the path lab team for a good few years before graduation, so felt more a part of the history and took much more interest in every aspect than some of the newer members.
She was pulled out of her reverie by the sound of someone at the door, knocking at the door to be precise which annoyed Bina, since there was a bell to get attention, and it was clearly labelled – I guess you can’t fix stupid she thought to herself. Fixing her best ‘I’m not really cross’ smile she walked purposefully out and down the hall.
Perhaps it was the new lights, or her sunnier than usual air but Jim looked different today, slimmer perhaps? No, not that he was overweight per se, more the comfy side of athletic. Maybe his hair had been tended to? That wasn’t it, he still sporting his usual mop – he’s in a suit! Bina took a minute to absorb this before opening the door, checking for evidence of an overnight session at some posh bar, or wedding reception, but he was clean and tidy and looked fairly fresh, for Jim.
“Morning Jim” she said, “you look….nice” she added, trying hard to keep the surprise from her voice and worrying that she had failed miserably. “Good morning, erm…thanks” said Jim, his cheeks turning almost the same red as his hair. Jim Pallister, embarrassed thought Bina, he never gets embarrassed about anything, all I said was he looked nice, oh…Bina turned away to stride back to the lab with Jim trailing somewhere behind, hoping he hadn’t noticed the slight smile on her face.
She’d checked his shoes too, clean and shiny, he really had made an effort. Very impressive.
“What time’s the wedding?” asked Seamus on arrival at the lab, looking at Jim with a quizzical expression. He couldn’t ever remember seeing Jim in anything smarter than Next jeans and reasonable shirt, maybe once he had a blazer on but that was for someone’s birthday party at Faizan’s the restaurant in town. Not that he was a mess, just not often tidy.
“It’s to your mum” said Jim over his shoulder, “and good morning to you too, sir”. The two men signed in at the main desk and Bina escorted them to the main lab where Reg had been arranged on the clean steel benches. Seamus still couldn’t quite come to terms with a person in boxes, and this was all the more difficult since he had only told him to ‘piss off and get a proper job’ a few days ago, yet here he was. Boxed.
It seemed Jim was having a similar internal consideration, the way he paced up and down the benches just looking with a mixture of shock and disbelief still. Then he stopped and looked at Bina with such a serious expression she nearly took a step backwards.
“What do you think was used to cut him up?” asked Jim, still almost staring at her. She moved away slightly, his gaze was making her feel somewhat uncomfortable. “Are you OK Jim, do you need some air?” she asked without getting to his question. He shuffled a bit where he stood, looked across at Seamus, and passed out.
If Jim had been embarrassed by the earlier compliment, it was nothing in comparison to that little episode. As much as he really wanted to blame it on a lack of sustenance or a long and alcoholic night out, the reality was he just couldn’t deal with what was in front of him. He’s been to many trips to the path lab in his career, seen enough people on ‘the slab;, but this was just too much. Reg was such a regular there that the notion of him not being back in the morning, added to the sight of what had happened to him just tipped Jim over the edge.
Both Bina and Seamus had hauled him up off the floor and managed to get him to a seat and keep him steady until he came back, and even then he looked like he would puke. But there were not jokes from either of them, as they knew he was usually much stronger than this, so there must have been a good reason for such an extreme reaction.
“Here you go mate” said Seamus, offering him another glass of water and checking his eyes for signs of concussion, as his descent had been rather rapid.
“Cheers, guv, and I’m sorry I just…” Jim looked across the room at the boxes and teetered a little in the chair. “I think I’ll sit this one out, if that’s OK” he said meekly to Seamus, almost under his breath.
“Of course, just take your time, we’ll handle the first bits and see how you’re feeling later” offered Seamus, realising that he too wasn’t feeling quite as well as he could be, this really was way more violence than he’d witnessed, and for someone he sort of knew made it even more difficult.
Bina made sure Jim had a wall to lean on to prevent any further visits to the floor and picked up some fresh gloves and made her way back to the bench to open the first of the plastic boxes.
“Hang on a sec” said Seamus, very much back in his stride, “what can you make of the writing first, I couldn’t see quite what is said”.
Bina looked over to the box containing Reg’s head, on the lid the characters were unclear, the message did appear to suggest that there was a figure of £5K something, so she went to the cupboards containing some of the chemicals used to extract evidential information and tried one. The result was less than satisfactory, at least to start with. After a few more seconds though, the fainter characters came up a little clearer, £5,500.
“What’s that about?’ she asked out loud, “£5,500 for what?, can’t be for the job, surely and why say that it’s been saved, saved from what, for what – well, I suppose that’s for you two to find out”. She looked over to Seamus then across the room to Jim, who was by now starting to regain a little colour and composure.
“There is the possibility that it’s got nothing to do with what’s in the boxes” mused Seamus, “maybe it was in there before and just that the lid was the only one that would fit and whoever did this didn’t bother to clean it off”.
“We can check that” said Bina, looking for a kit to carry out ink aging tests. “Let’s get a sample of the ink and get that analysing then we can open a box and sample the contents to see if we can determine a time of death”.
Open a box. Seamus looked over to where Jim was sitting and tried to gauge how he was, and how he had received that update. To be fair, Jim had looked better but he also looked somewhat stoic and tentatively got to his feet. “I can’t spend the whole day on my arse” he said with what he hoped was a smile, but to Seamus looked more like he had wind.
The moment the lid came off it hit them, the smell was overwhelming, even with the strong air extraction system in the lab. “Oh my, Reg” Bina exclaimed, “maybe I shouldn’t have started with your feet”.
Jim immediately returned to his seat but this time buried his face in his hands. Slowly shaking his head, he muttered through his fingers “you poor, poor bastard”. A mass murderer, child killer or a rapist would never have received this level of sentiment, but this was harmless Reg for Christ’s sake, he’d handed him a shitty cup of coffee last week.
Breakfast at the Burch household was often a frantic time of the day, or be it just the weekdays. School was looming and Adrian and Lisa always made sure the kids had something to eat, preferably something wholesome and good enough to set them up for the day. There was an array of cereals to choose from, or toast and today even crumpets.
Adrian grabbed a mug of tea and checked that the kids both had their shoes on, bags ready and that Sam had his packed lunch.
The radio was on in the background and Lisa was almost dancing to the latest offering by Hozier, or was it Coldplay. God she was feeling old, she used to know ever song by every band, now she feared she was turning into her mum with comments like ‘well, it’s all starts to sound the same’ but stopping short of adding ‘these days’, she didn’t have a blue rinse and bifocals just yet.
“Come on Sam, those are Shreddies, not sharks in there, stop making them chase each other and gobble them up” Adrian said jovially, in an attempt to get his youngest son a little closer to the front door.
“Daddy” said same in almost a whisper. This was not a good sign, he only called Adrian ‘daddy’ when he wanted something, turning on the child-charm offensive, knowing very well his dad was much more of a push over than his mum. “Yes, sweetheart?” Adrian replied, turning to look at his almost 8 year old son.
“I don’t want to go to school” Sam said, with an expression of sadness and defiance. “Why not, kiddo, what’s wrong?” asked his father, with genuine concern, it wasn’t like Sam to not want to go to school, by all accounts he seemed to love it there. He had some good friends, kids that lived on the same street that he’d know most of his life, and he showed a genuine interest in the lessons.
“My teacher is a bum head” came the response. It was all Adrian could do not to jettison his tea across the kitchen floor, and he fought to maintain a degree of composure. “Right, OK – why is your teacher a, umm…bum head?” It could have been worse, thought Adrian, I mean, bum head – not what he was expecting at all. He’d met Mr Clarke at the last parent’s evening and he seemed OK, cheery and dedicated at many younger teachers are, full head of hair too if memory served, so didn’t look as though his head resembled that part of the anatomy. “Why is he one of those?” he asked, trying to diffuse the need to repeat the comment. “He said that Charlies hair was silly, but it’s actually the same as Will Stuarts, so it’s cool”. Adrian knew when he was out of his depth, as he hadn’t the slightest idea who Sam was talking about, but didn’t want to seem like an idiot in front of an almost eight year old. “Well, perhaps Mr Clarke is jealous and he wants the same haircut, but can’t really express himself very well” he suggested, in an attempt to recover his grasp of the conversation. Sam pondered this for a short while, then smiled. “You’re probably right dad, his hair is a bit rubbish actually”. Crisis averted, time for the school run.
The route to the school was mercifully short, not giving Sam enough time to rethink his now revised opinion of his teacher, but long enough for Adrian to become slightly obsessive about other drivers on the road. This was a daily issue for him, and it wasn’t because he felt he was a superior motorist but was fuelled by the fascination with police documentaries and following traffic police TV programmes with such fervour. He’s spot incorrect number plates, and often look up the tax, MOT and insurance status of vehicles that he thought looked a little dodgy, and in some cases did find some that had one or more of those missing.
On one afternoon at a fast food restaurant, he noticed a black Audi A5 coming into the car park, and from his table inside he could see the driver, and (he assumed) his partner and two young children. But there was something about the car that peaked his interest, so he picked up his phone and checked the Government website which quickly informed him that the vehicle had neither Tax nor MOT. He then checked the AskMID website, to check if it was showing as insured. It wasn’t.
How on earth does someone drive their family around in a car with no tax, MOT or insurance? What happens if they are in an accident? His bloody children are in there, and they are driving about having fast food!! What is wrong with people?
Adrian was incredulous, he abhorred this kind of thing and it was so much worse when kids got caught up in it. What else don’t they think applies to them? No seatbelts perhaps, probably drives too fast, and God alone knows what state their tyres must be in. All these thoughts were still whirring around his head when they we walking in to the restaurant and for a fleeting moment, Adrian toyed with the notion of talking to the driver, to ask how he could be so arrogant and inconsiderate. But common sense prevented him from doing anything, as it always did so he just stewed in the corner and made a note of the car reg.
Over the years, Adrian had done this countless times, but more recently he felt his dissatisfaction growing each time he saw the same transgressions being committed each day. He hadn’t realised just how much it riled him that even in his quiet, provincial town there were so many occurrences, so many people flaunting the rules and potentially putting many others in danger or one form or another. One thing he was aware of was the growing list of car number plates he had, each one with either a t, m or I next to them, or a combination of all of them denoting which infringement they had associated to them. He was just glad it wasn’t too obvious if a car passing him on the road was stolen, unless of course it was being driven so badly that it could be that or drugs or drunk driving.
Adrian knew that this had escalated since becoming a father some ten years ago, and his fear of something happening to his kids out there just got worse, from that terrifying drive back from the hospital with that tiny, precious package on board.
Seamus and Jim left Bina and the team to get on with the unenviable task of going through the boxes and getting to grips with the details of just how Reg ended up in parts. Both men often felt superfluous when in the path lab, while it was always good to be part of each step in the process, they were aware that they didn’t really bring much to the party, except a little distraction as today demonstrated.
“Come on Jim, let’s grab a coffee on the way back, my treat” said Seamus as they walked out into the fresh air. On emerging into the sunlight from the building, Jim squinted and took a very deep breath, some of the colour finally returning to his face.
It was finally getting cooler now after a summer that seemed to stretch on for months with seemingly unrelenting heat. Even the nights were hot making what little sleep Seamus got next to impossible and largely uncomfortable. The drop in temperature was very welcome and a gentle introduction towards autumn, undoubtably Seamus’s favourite season.
Jim was still very quiet, the whole episode in the lab had clearly shaken him and it wasn’t embarrassment at feinting, it was that he was overwhelmed by the events of the day and really needed a little more time to process it all. He was glad to not have to drive back and even more glad to have the hot cup of coffee in his hands, now shaking much less than they had been for the past hour.
Jim had moved into the Major Crimes Unit five years ago, just a year before Seamus came over from his city post, so they had been able to create a good working relationship, that they both had allowed to extend a little outside of the job. But while Jim was far more outgoing and happy to blend work and social life, Seamus was much more guarded, and even after the best part of four years still turned down more invitations for an after work drink than he accepted. In Seamus’s mind he didn’t really want to be a reason to keep family folks from getting home at a reasonable time and spending the evenings with those close to them, who they won’t have seen all day, rather than being with colleagues for more hours that was really necessary. He told himself this to justify the polite declines to the drinks or in rare cases, a BBQ at a colleagues or a party here and there, and despite the alternative being just him in his quiet flat, he told himself he preferred it that way. He would much rather be alone than a spare.
Over the years Jim had managed to eek out some of the history, the odd question in the car, prising out little bits the way only a seasoned detective could, trying to get to know his boss a little at a time but without coming across as invasive. But he’s learned enough to know that his colleague, and he’d like to say, friend, was a deeply lonely person and just as unhappy. But the job was not only his life, it was his salvation too, his reason to get up each day – but Jim couldn’t help thinking that if he would just let himself go a bit, maybe good things might start to happen for him.
On one rare occasion when the two managed a reasonable discussion on the subject, Seamus revealed that part of the reason for the move was to try to find a balance so that he could prove to himself that there was more out there, and to gain some confidence that he could exist outside the job that had consumed every waking hour it seemed, since he had joined. He had confided a lot to Jim that day, more than he had anyone else Seamus realised and added that to the growing list of things that kept him awake for far too long. He didn’t want to be a burden on anyone, didn’t need any sympathy but recently he had realised that what he did need was guidance, and more than that, a friend.
Chapter 3
October 2019.
Seamus thought he had been through the whole gamut of emotions over the past few weeks, he’d cried more than he thought possible, he was angry with her and himself, he felt his heart was broken beyond repair and knew his marriage was.
She’s said some really hurtful things, which he had no reason to doubt were true since he knew he had been difficult to live with, he just hadn’t realised how difficult or for how long. He certainly hadn’t considered the extent of his attitude and the repercussions of it or just how deeply he had managed to cut into her feelings.
He wasn’t much of a drinker, so he didn’t turn to alcohol to try to hide behind or attempt to alleviate the pain, he simply couldn’t operate. Nothing could take him out of the darkness that surrounded him and no amount of coaxing would get him to leave the flat he had to move in to, even though he hated being there, by himself.
As the weeks had gone by he went through the arguments, dissected them to try to find something to hold on to, some kindness amid the bitterness, but it wasn’t there. Work hadn’t really seen this side of his deconstruction since their perspective was from the op and its aftermath, and his personal turmoil was hidden from view.
There were moments when the absolute blackness got too much and his mind had wound him up to such an extent he felt he had no choice but to escape, to get away from all of this for good and leave the pain behind forever. He had come close, a rope around his neck on one desperate afternoon as he had stood on a bench sobbing his apologies to an empty shed. He’d stepped forward and felt the rope tighten around him, his weight suspended from the roof and a feeling of release starting to envelop him. But the rope came away from the roof and he crashed to the ground, but he didn’t feel relief that he was safe, he felt angry at himself for not doing this right, like so many other things he had messed up he couldn’t even get this done properly.
From that day he’d needed to always wear tops with a collar to hide the scars.
The last time was when he found himself standing in the kitchen with a knife at his chest, pushing it into himself hoping to pierce his heart. The pressure kept increasing and all he felt was rage inside, hoping that soon everything would be quiet and he could sleep at last.
It was the faces of his children that rushed into his mind and stopped the blade from getting any further. By then a reasonable amount of blood has soaked into his shirt, and he’d needed to patch himself up.
Timisoara, Romania
Hiding was a lot harder than he’d thought it would be, even with his contacts, but then he wasn’t sure how many of those he could trust now. It had been five months since his whole UK operation had been taken apart by the police and he had almost died. The police officer that had got between him and his escape route had somehow managed to disarm him of the knife he was going to use. He hadn’t expected that and was off guard when he felt it cut into his leg, right at his groin. He had tried to fight him off so he could make it to the waiting cars, but he was getting weaker by the moment and the police officer was strong and wouldn’t let him go.
It was then that things had got even more out of control, the door of car opening and Kelmendi had stride over to them both, grabbing him by the hair and telling him he was a marked man, that he would never be able to escape his fate before knocking the officer out cold with one swipe of the aluminium baseball bat, before turning it on him.
He’d woken up while in the back of a car, not on the seats but in the boot, crumpled up and still bleeding although now with a filthy rag as a makeshift tourniquet to stem the flow of what he was sure was arterial blood.
After what had felt like a lifetime, the car had stopped and he had been unceremoniously dumped at the side of the road, only to see the taillights disappear into the distance. Severely injured and with no idea where he was, he had needed to find shelter first then a phone to call Dushku, he needed to explain.
Dubrovnik, Croatia – Present day.
Any other day, the sun on his back would have felt good, made him relaxed and happy to be here. He would usually have been at this bar in good spirits enjoying the company of friends and discussing the future. But not today.
It had taken weeks to get here, off grid with none of his usual support available to him, moving at night when he could and when he felt there wasn’t anyone watching, vastly narrowing down the windows of opportunity. He was very much a marked man, just as Kelmendi had warned him he would be. Baciu had a new perspective on his approach to others over the years, the threats he had made, the punishments handed out to keep control over the flow of the products.
He lit a cigarette and took a long draw, exhaling the smoke slowly into the air around him, before draining the last of the water from the bottle in his still shaking hand. He was tired, dirty and hungry. He hadn’t eaten properly for weeks, and had scrounged cigarettes from passers by who clearly thought he was a vagrant, not recognising him as the infamous ‘Shepherd’ who had reigned over these cities for years, branching out by violently staking his claim, city by city, country by country, pushing out the product and enforcing the payments with venom. He was known for his lack of patience, and his edict being absolute, and was well regarded up the chain as one who always delivered. Until that day, when all the planning and all the evasion counted for nothing, and that was all that was left of the UK operation. Nothing.
As Baciu paced the cobbled streets on his way up to Pile gate, the agreed rendezvous point. After nearly an hour moving from one secluded area to another he noticed a black Range Rover with heavily tinted windows driving up to the edge of the square. There was something in the manner it was being driven that set him on edge, as though the driver were looking for something, or someone. Baciu retreated into a shadowed alcove and watched as the car continued its slow cruise across the stone street. He didn’t dare move, he had unconsciously slowed his breathing as much as he could as though the driver would be able to hear him. Just a few feet away, the car came to a stop. Baciu froze and tried to blend into the building he was hiding near. The engine stopped and the drivers door opened.
Dushku stepped out into the late afternoon sun, dressed in a linen suit and casual shoes, his eyes masked by dark sunglasses. At well over 6 feet tall he was an impressive figure, his lean and muscular body not giving much indication of his 45 years, and raven black hair as full as it must have been in his younger days.
He took out a pack of cigarettes from his inside jacket pocket and motioned towards where Baciu stood. “You look like an elephant in a…..what is it your English friend would say….a freezer!” and a wide smile spread across his face
