A Deadly Imperfection: Calladine & Bayliss 3 Read online

  ‘Too bloody nosey, you mean. I can’t pretend, Ruth, I might not show it but I’m damned annoyed.’

  ‘I don’t see why – she’s your mother for goodness sake. You’re just not brave enough to do anything about it yourself.’

  ‘I wanted it leaving for a reason,’ he ran his hand through his short hair. He looked even greyer than usual and his face had gone ashen. ‘This whole thing will cause too much upset. I was even considering just letting it lie, doing nothing – ever.’

  ‘Don’t be such a wimp,’ she retorted. ‘That idea is just ludicrous. You need to do this, find her, speak to her and get her side of things. Don’t you want to know why she gave you up, what’s she like?’

  ‘No, not really, and she gave me away because she didn’t want me. My dad will have made it easy for her. So she jumped at the chance to get her life back.’

  ‘Bollocks! It’ll be nothing like that. You’re scared, Tom Calladine, and I’m disappointed in you.’

  Ruth Bayliss swung her bag over her shoulder and walked off towards the main entrance of the hospital.

  ‘Wait up, I’ve been injured, remember?’

  ‘Coward!’ She threw back at him.

  ‘Mind your cheek, Sergeant,’ he pulled her up. ‘I’m still your boss, remember that.’

  Ruth flashed him one of her unimpressed looks, tossed back her hair and carried on with him lagging behind her.

  He was left watching her shapely form striding off without him. God she was becoming a right harridan.

  ‘Okay – I give in. You’re going to tell me – so later. We’ll get a coffee and you can give me the lowdown,’ he decided once he’d caught her up. No good arguing – she was going to get her way – so why fight it.

  Ruth had known she’d win him round. He couldn’t kid her – deep down he was every bit as curious about Eve Walker as she was. How could he not be – he was a detective and she was his mother.

  Ruth gave him a conspiratorial smile then presented her badge to the woman in the reception area and asked to see Dr. Ahmed’s secretary.

  Celia Downs was middle aged, wore her hair in tight bun on the top of her head and had round framed glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She looked older than she probably was, and she didn’t smile much either.

  ‘DI Calladine and DS Bayliss from Leesworth CID,’ he introduced themselves. ‘I’m not sure if you are aware but Doctor Ahmed was found dead earlier today – murdered in his own home.’

  Her distinctly pinched expression didn’t change - she simply moved her eyes from one of them to the other.

  ‘Yes I know – it’s been on the news,’ she enlightened them. ‘So what are you doing about it?’

  Calladine knew that there’d been no press release yet, so how had they got hold of the story so fast.

  ‘We’re investigating, Mrs Downs, that’s what we’re doing. First we need to get a feel for what the Doctor was like. I need to know about his family, his friends, if there was anybody giving him a hard time. In short, as much as you can tell me about him.’

  ‘It’s Ms,’ she corrected him.

  Now why didn’t that surprise him?

  ‘He didn’t have any family. He never married, no children and he was an only child, I believe. He used to have an elderly mother in Pakistan but I imagine she’s dead by now.’

  ‘Did anyone give him any grief recently - was there any arguments or other altercations between staff or patients? In short, did the doctor have any enemies that you know of?

  ‘No, of course not,’ she frowned at them. ‘Doctor Ahmed was an eminent Oncologist, first class in his field. He’ll be greatly missed by the profession.’

  ‘A nice guy then?’ Ruth chipped in.

  ‘Nice…,’ Celia Downs thought for a moment then shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so - that’s not the adjective I’d use to describe him,’ she decided. ‘He might not have had enemies, but Doctor Ahmed wasn’t easy to get on with, not easy at all. He was a hard man. He could deliver the worst possible news to his patients without any emotion at all. The man was completely lacking in empathy, you see.’

  ‘And there’d be a lot of bad news, I take it?’ Calladine surmised.

  ‘Greater Manchester has a large number of cancer patients and the fact of the matter is, they don’t get picked up soon enough and so they die,’ she told him soberly. ‘Doctor Ahmed worked hard, he did what he could - whatever was possible for all his patients, but, I’m afraid, the personal touch was absent.’

  ‘Any of his patients take the bad news particularly hard lately,’ Ruth asked?

  ‘As his secretary, it’s difficult to say. You’ll need to talk to his clinical staff.’

  ‘I intend to,’ Calladine confirmed. ‘Back to the question about friends, as his secretary you must have had to arrange things for him from time to time. He had no wife to do it.’

  ‘He had little social life to speak of, Inspector. Drinks at Christmas with the staff, and then only the one, and I’ve no idea about anything else.’

  ‘Are you sure there is no one in his circle who might be jealous of the doctor, bare a grudge and act on it?’

  ‘I can’t answer that – I’ve no idea what goes on in people’s heads. The people Doctor Ahmed met were mostly patients. They were very sick, Inspector, even if they didn’t like him much, it’s unlikely they’d have the energy or the will to do much about it.’

  ‘Okay then, clinical staff – can you arrange for us to talk to them?’

  ‘Certainly – you need Doctors Hurst and Hussain. Both are on the wards or in theatre at present. If you leave your card I’ll get them to come in and see you.’

  ‘In my opinion, Inspector, whoever did this will be someone nearer to home. I doubt it will turn out to have anything to do with this hospital.’

  ***

  Albert North wasn’t very good on his feet these days. But the dog needed walking and that waster of a nephew of his hadn’t shown his face all day. It wasn’t late, just gone six and ordinarily he’d be making his way to the pub about now for a pint and a chinwag with his mates. Now he’d have to forgo that and take the damn dog out himself. He’d give Jayden a clip around the ear when he did eventually turn up, inconsiderate bastard.

  He grunted at the animal and reached up for its lead, taking it from a coat hook. He’d walk him over the common and make it back before it got too dark. Not that Albert North was afraid of the dark – Albert North was afraid of nothing. Time was when most of the folk living around here – on the Hobfield Estate, was afraid of him. He’d been the man – the man with drugs to sell, and the man you didn’t cross. He sighed wearily, that was a lifetime ago, and those passing years hadn’t gone easy on him.

  These days he was old and infirm. He’d had one stroke and that had left him unsteady. He didn’t like to stray too far from his flat – the pub, the Post Office and occasionally the doctors and that was about it. Rarely did he venture out to walk the dog – that was supposed to be Jayden’s job.

  He pulled his stocky frame into his coat and whistled the mutt. The beast was old like him and wouldn’t give him any trouble. He took the lift down to the ground floor and left the block by the side door. There was nobody about, too bloody cold.

  It took him about ten minutes to shuffle his way onto the common. He’d keep to the perimeter, he didn’t want to stumble and do himself an injury. It was icy, he hated nights like this, cold and dark. He was shivering, the wind bit deep into his bones and his legs were stiff. Bloody Jayden making promises he couldn’t keep.

  He hadn’t been out long but he was already breathless and his knee hurt. He was down for a new one but he’d probably be dead before the NHS called him in. He lowered his heavy frame onto a bench by some trees and let the dog off his lead for a while. He leaned back and closed his eyes. God it was freezing – far too cold for him. He rubbed his gloved hands together and hunkered down into his coat. He’d give the dog five minutes or so and then it was back to his warm flat.<
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  ‘You’ve not seen a cat,’ a female voice interrupted, ‘this cat.’

  The woman shoved a piece of paper in front of his nose waving it at him. ‘I’ve looked everywhere - the poor thing’s never done anything like this before. I’ve been searching for Mitzie all week but there’s no sign.’

  Who calls their cat Mitzie, Albert wondered, not even bothering to look up at her but shuffling up so she could sit down.

  ‘Wrong glasses on,’ his excuse for not examining the paper she was still wafting about. ‘Dog person myself, don’t like cats, smelly things,’ he mumbled through his scarf which was wrapped around his face.

  ‘Not my Mitzie, she’s a beautiful cat, won prizes and everything,’ she protested, flopping down beside him. ‘I’ve been out for ages, I’m beginning to think I’ll never find her,’ she moaned.

  Albert grunted at this – he wasn’t impressed, cats were dreadful creatures. He inhaled the cold air - there was a smell, a smell he recognised – whiskey. The woman had pulled a flask from her bag and was pouring the hot liquid into a beaker.

  Harriet wasn’t getting anywhere - it was obvious he had no idea who she was, and that was disappointing because she wanted him to know why his life was going to end very soon, and end horrifically.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ She put to him. Harriet was angry again. She was fast losing control of the rage that boiled within her. It had the upper hand more and more these days and it made her do things. She had hated this man for as long as she could remember so how could he not know her? She couldn’t do this anonymously - he had to understand, then he’d feel the fear. He must be made to remember what he’d done. Then he would die and she’d be satisfied. This was too important for her to continue with the charade about the cat.

  Albert shrugged, he wasn’t interested.

  ‘If you knew who I was, and what I was going to do then you wouldn’t sit there so calmly.’

  She was gabbling on - her words meant nothing to him. In his eyes she was nothing but a batty old woman. Right now he was far more interested in keeping out the cold than listening to her ranting.

  ‘We’ve met before, and I swore then that I’d get even - I’m surprised you’ve no memory of it. I expended a lot of hate and venom that day,’ she sniffed swallowing hard on the drink. ‘You must remember that day in court when you were had up for killing my Jimmy.’

  At that Albert coughed hard and stamped his feet against the cold.

  Still nothing – not even a hint of remorse, the man deserved to die.

  ‘Hot toddy,’ she surprised him while offering him the beaker. ‘Very strong, just how I like it. When I’m out like this I need something to keep out the cold.’

  Now she had his attention. She wanted him distracted for the next bit.

  Albert took it gratefully into his gloved hands and downed a heavy swig. It was hot and strong – good stuff. He swallowed the remainder in one gulp – she had plenty left in that flask of hers.

  ‘He’d have been in his thirties now, my Jimmy,’ she droned on. ‘You robbed me of that. You robbed me of him and of grandchildren too, probably. You sit there all quiet and easy, and I bet you’ve got family, haven’t you?’

  Albert was racking his brain but he was still none the wiser. Perhaps the woman was mad. Perhaps she’d got out on her own from some home or other, and even as they sat here a pack of worried carers were searching for her.

  ‘Jimmy Finch, you must recall him now, dark haired, skinny lad. Ran drugs for you on the Hobfield for long enough.’

  Now that name did ring a bell, and it sent the first shiver of fear snaking down his spine.

  ‘You had him done away with. You had him beat to a pulp then dumped in the underpass by the dual carriageway. You and your thugs left him unconscious on a pile of rotting cardboard.’

  ‘Not me, love,’ he lied, his voice a mere rasp. ‘No way, you can’t pin that on me.’

  ‘Oh I know that – I tried back then and got nowhere. But it was you, Albert North. I know it was. You were the big man back then. You beat him with a bat, the police said. Then you left him cold, bleeding heavily, and at the mercy of a pack of feral kids who set him alight.’

  ‘Not my fault then. The kids did him, not me at all.’

  His head was bent - the steam floating upwards from the beaker smelled delicious and was warm on his face. He heard her fumbling in her bag again – what now, did the old bat have sandwiches too, he wondered with a rare smile.

  But what Harriet pulled from her bag would give Albert North no pleasure at all – not this time. She stood up and moved behind him, he didn’t even turn to look what she was up to - why should he? She’d lost it. She was a stupid old woman with a mad idea out looking for her cat, what had he to fear from her?

  Harriet unscrewed the cap from the petrol can she’d brought with her. Albert sat there helpless, unsuspecting - just like her Jimmy had been. The rage was back, North deserved everything that was coming to him. She shook the contents wildly over Albert’s head then threw the can to the ground. .

  He wasn’t quick enough to help himself. Albert felt the liquid wet his face and clothes. The strong vapours replaced the smell of whiskey up his nose making him feel sick. He shouted a protest, and his hands clutched wildly at the fabric as he frantically tried to remove his petrol sodden scarf. But it was too late.

  Suddenly he was still, his eyes blinking wide open at the sound of the striking match. She made a noise – she was shrieking at him.

  ‘That’s for my Jimmy, you bastard!’ Were the last words Albert North heard on earth.

  Harriet dropped the match onto his scarf at the back of his head. A heartbeat later he became a blazing torch – a human beacon that lit up the dark night like an expensive firework.

  Harriet stood well back and watched. She watched his skin shrivel then literally appear to melt from his flesh. She waited until he ceased to scream, until he was unrecognisable – his head nothing but a blackened, charred mess. His lower body wasn’t too badly burned though, and no doubt the police would rifle through his clothing in an effort to find out who he was. With that thought in mind she took a tarot card from her bag and placed it in his coat pocket.

  The Devil – how apt for a man like Albert North.

  Chapter 4

  Wednesday

  ‘Tom, Tom, wake up,’ Lydia groaned, poking him in the ribs. ‘For Heaven’s sake your mobile’s been ringing on and off for the last ten minutes, do something about it or it’s going through the window,’ she hissed at him once he’d prised his eyes open.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Some unearthly hour. If this is what it’s like with you working then you’ll have to sleep in the spare room,’ she whined,

  ‘I thought this was my house,’ he said, rubbing his stubbly face. ‘So shouldn’t that be you in the spare room?’

  ‘Come on Detective, you don’t really mean that, do you?’ She ran her hand provocatively over his naked chest down to his navel. ‘You’d be far too lonely,’ she said, slapping his belly.

  Minx that she was, but she right, he would be lonely without her and not just in bed either. Calladine picked up his mobile from the table – Ruth. What now, he wondered, calling her back.

  ‘We’ve got another one, Guv,’ she said at once. ‘And it’s not good. One of the most horrific things I’ve ever seen, and I’m not kidding you. I’m on the common, near the small copse of trees opposite the bus stop. You need to get down here fast. You need to see this because we need to get the body moved quickly.’

  ‘Another one,’ he queried? His brain wasn’t functioning on all cylinders yet.

  ‘Another ‘tarot card murder’,’ Ruth enlightened him patiently.

  ‘So that’s what we’re calling it now?’

  ‘It’s what the press will call it if we don’t get our act together,’ she told him before his handset went dead.

  ‘Got to go,’ he told Lydia as he jumped out of bed. ‘Nast
y case shaping up – could be gone all day.’

  ‘You haven’t forgotten I’m seeing your cousin later – visiting him in Strangeways.’

  ‘No,’ he lied. ‘But why you’re still chasing after that thug Fallon is beyond me.’

  ‘Because he has a story to tell, Tom and he’s going to tell it to me – exclusively. And when he does it’ll blast my career to the sky,’ she enthused rolling onto her back and stretching out her long limbs.

  ‘Waste of time, he’s using you. He’ll have an angle, take my word for it.’

  ‘Don’t care,’ she sniffed. ‘I need this, and I won’t be put off.’

  ‘The man tried to kill me.’

  ‘And I saved you, so don’t cross me on this, it won’t go down well.’

  Once he’d showered and dressed he went back into the bedroom and kissed her mouth gently. She’d gone back to sleep – okay for some.

  The sun was just rising as he arrived at Leesdon Common. He parked by the road and walked towards the taped off area. There was a smell pervading the entire area, the unmistakable smell of burnt flesh. He shivered, poor bugger, whoever he’d been. Ruth and Rocco were on the scene and had things organised.

  ‘Guv,’ Rocco shouted to him. ‘Think we’ve got an ID.’

  Calladine nodded a brief greeting as the young DC spoke but it was the sight of Albert North’s body, still sat on the bench that had his full attention. His lower body and clothing looked practically intact but the upper half was a mess. How could anyone ID that?

  ‘He must have been walking his dog,’ Rocco explained. ‘Eventually it took itself off home, and his nephew,’ he said, nodding at the corpse, ‘came looking for him. He’s Albert North, lived on the Hobfield.’

  Calladine knew North alright, and where he lived. He’d spent a great deal of his time as a rookie cop chasing after the reprobate. He’d been a bad lot back then and from the look of him, he was still upsetting people today.

  ‘Can the nephew say for sure that this is North?’ He asked doubtfully.