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

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

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

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

  Someone was getting rid of the rubbish.

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

  “What about Masheda?”

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

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

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

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

  “Perhaps,” was Calladine’s cryptic reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “We don’t have an assault any more, we have a full blown murder on our hands,” he told Ruth quietly. “When he feels up to it, I want Wilfred interviewed formally, and someone will have to go and see Mrs Stanley.”

  “I can go.” Ruth volunteered. “I’ll get their statements tomorrow, and bring them back to the station.”

  Chapter 6

  Calladine had said five, but it was way past seven by the time the team reassembled in the main office, which had now become the incident room. He yawned, checking his watch.

  “Make sure a PC is keeping an eye on that flat. I want to know the minute Donna gets home. I don’t care what time it is. I’ll speak to her myself. Any joy with the CCTV?”

  Imogen Goode shook her head and sighed. She’d spent most of the day with her eyes glued to the damned screen, but she didn’t know what she was looking for. What constituted suspicious behaviour around here? Watching the goings on at the shops on the Hobfield opened a window into another world. She’d seen at least two scuffles and one failed mugging. And all within the space of two hours’ worth of tape.

  “I’ll keep at it.”

  “We’re definitely looking at murder,” Calladine announced to his team. “Ice might have managed without his fingers, but he’ll not get by without his head. I’m doubtful this is gang related, but keep an open mind. Ian Callum Edwards is a victim for sure, but I’ve also got grave doubts regarding the fate of Gavin Hurst. The two lived in each other’s pockets. However, there’s always the chance that Gavin knows something and is holed up somewhere. We need people to talk. I want a presence on the Hobfield, the community centre in particular.”

  Whispers went around the room. He knew what they’d be thinking. Not gang related? What was he getting at? If this wasn’t gang warfare, then what was it? He saw Ruth shake her head and fold her arms. In her opinion he was doing it again — ignoring the obvious.

  Calladine wrote Gavin’s name on the board. “Why hasn’t Julian come up with his name?”

  “No DNA on record,” Imogen offered.

  Calladine gave her a look and narrowed his eyes. That was information for him and the team, not gossip for Julian and Imogen to chew over.

  “Speak to his family, friends, anyone who saw — sees him regularly. We need to know a lot more about Gavin.”

  “Gavin doesn’t seem to have any family,” Ruth told the team. “He was living with an auntie until she died. After that he’s had no fixed address. If you ask me he’s been dossing down with Ice somewhere.”

  “Rocco, try and find out where, and anything you can about any other relatives he might have. Speak to them. If they’re local they might have had contact with him recently. Kelly Griggs — any ideas?”

  “The kid is in nursery most days, so I presume she’s found herself a job. Her neighbours don’t know where. No one’s seen her for a day or two,” Rocco added.

  “We need to speak to both women,” he reiterated. “Four of us have been on the Hobfield today, and I didn’t sense any tension. In fact the place was surprisingly quiet. Even Masheda and his girlfriend didn’t seem bothered to be seen talking to us. Now that’s not natural.”

  He paused for a moment. The nick might have got a rude awakening from the quiet summer, but the estate hadn’t caught up yet. The problems would only get worse when it did. All hell would break out between the gangs. They’d blame each other for Ice’s death. There’d be beatings, fighting, and the police would have to pick up the pieces.

  “Once this gets out we’ll struggle to keep a lid on the violence, so we need to move fast. Today’s been a long, hard slog. We’ve no motive, no weapons, and no idea why these two were killed. Was it deliberate or random? But we do have names, well one for sure. Tomorrow I want some background. I want everything we can get on Ice and Gavin Hurst.” He looked back at the board. “While we’re at it, see if there is any link, no matter how tenuous, to Richard Pope.”

  Minutes later, the team dispersed for the day.

  “Are you going?” Ruth asked Calladine, looking up from her desk. “I’ll finish up myself in a while, but I’ve still got some stuff to do. I want to make some inroads into my research on Ice’s background. He had a record. He’d spent time in a Young Offenders Unit. You never know — there might be something in there that will help,” Ruth nodded hopefully. “Something to make you see the reality of the situation. Make you see that this was to do with drugs and gang rivalry, and not the work of some wild murderer on the loose.”

  “Don’t stay too late. Your day’s been as long as mine. Mind you I’m off to see my mother first, then home.” He yawned. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ruth. Then with any luck we’ll interview those women.”

  He still hadn’t done anything about Monika’s present. The Antiques Centre would be closed now, so it’d have to wait. Her birthday wasn’t until the end of the week anyway. He needed to think, but his head was full of clutter. Monika was only part of it; there was also his mother. She was old and frail. He saw as much of her as he could, but he still felt guilty about the situation. He knew this couldn’t continue. One day soon he’d get the call, and he’d feel eve
n worse for not having done more. But at least he’d got her into the home, a good one. The residents were well looked after, Monika saw to that. He had no worries on that score.

  * * *

  Well looked after and kept warm. In fact the place was so hot the air hit him like a blow torch as he went through the front doors. It was a sauna. No fear of his mother freezing to death, not in here. Calladine walked down the corridor towards the sitting room, shuffling his overcoat from his shoulders as he went.

  “Tom!” Monika greeted him, coming out of her office.

  She was a few inches shorter than he, and struggling with her weight. Her dark hair was beginning to grey down the parting. She looked tired; like him she had a lot on her plate.

  “You look beat.” She frowned, cupping his weary face in her hands. “Trouble?”

  “Could be.” He nodded. “In fact, yes, big trouble, my instincts are telling me. I’ll look in on Ma, then finally I can get back home.”

  Monika kissed him on the mouth and stroked his cheek. He put his arm around her waist and held her close for a moment. This brief moment of affection made Calladine uncomfortable.

  What was wrong with him?

  Monika was a good woman; he could do a lot worse. He should think more about settling down properly, and he’d known her for a good while. But was that enough? There was a time when their relationship had been vibrant; when she sparked something in him. But since their last breakup things had changed — she’d changed. She’d aged, and put on the weight. She carried it well because she was tall, but it was there nonetheless. He was a selfish prick. This woman was the closest thing he’d had to a girlfriend in years, and he had the temerity to be picky.