Nikki stepped through onto a platform with steps that would take her further into the cellar – into deeper gloom, away from the frail light. Sajid went down the stairs, while Nikki scanned the area, her ears tuned for scratching sounds. She moved deeper inside.

  From the entrance, the beer man coughed and as Nikki turned around, he threw something at her. ‘Here, you better take this with you.’

  Nikki caught the heavy item. ‘Last thing you need is someone seeing the door open and locking the padlock, eh?’ He laughed, as if it would be the funniest thing imaginable if that happened and Nikki realised that she didn’t really like the man after all – despite him supplying overalls.

  As he departed, he pulled the door closed behind him and a sense of impending doom slipped over Nikki like a cloak. Now, it was only her and Saj against the rats … oh, and possibly a serial killer too. She turned and began her descent into the bowels of hell, thankful that yet again, Sajid had found a light switch.

  In the cobbled, damp-smelling cellar, Nikki glanced round. In one corner there was a substantial pulley which she presumed was to transport the beer barrels up to whichever establishment needed them. She wasn’t entirely sure where each of the pubs and wine bars stored their beer and she didn’t actually care. She had other things to think about. Sajid took out the folded map and glanced into the gloom to their left. ‘This way.’

  They walked in single file past a wall of piled barrels that created a narrow corridor directing them into further darkness. If she didn’t feel that her credibility had already been damaged by her earlier yelp, Nikki would have grabbed on to the bottom of Sajid’s jacket. Instead she stayed as close behind him as she could and tried to focus on his back and the light from his phone torch that was their only illumination going forward, rather than the slightly damp cold stone walls that arched over her from either side making her realise that she was verging on claustrophobia too. Bad enough the damn rats, but now this.

  Breathing through her mouth made it easier to avoid the mildewy smell – however, it tasted worse than it smelled, so Nikki slowed her breathing right down and tried to avoid deep inhalations. They walked in silence, Sajid crouching to accommodate the low roof.

  After a few minutes, Nikki got the sense that they were heading uphill again. A couple of times Sajid had stopped as they neared an arched exit that would have taken them into another tunnel. He consulted the map and then continued. Now they’d reached one from which a trickle of water was flowing. He guided his torch to the floor illuminating a drainage system that drained the water further underground. Sajid’s voice echoed through the dim light, eerie and ghost-like. ‘Bradford Beck – coming down from Listerhills. You know the beck at Theatre in the Mill. Well, I reckon, this is water draining from it. It probably flows fully underneath here into the sewers.’

  Nikki groaned in silence. Sewers meant filth and filth meant rats. She wished he’d give up on the geography lessons. ‘You following the tunnel that takes us to the ice rink? We need to see how that pans out, if it exits near where Stephanie Fields was found.’

  ‘Just a bit further on, I think then to the left a little. Maybe this tunnel will swerve left anyway.’

  The cobbles were slippery with the water and twice Nikki had to grab onto Sajid to stop herself losing her footing completely. The last thing she wanted was to be at eye level with her four-legged adversaries on the ground. Sure enough, after a few hundred yards, the tunnel seemed to swerve left and took a sharper incline. Keeping up with Sajid’s larger strides had Nikki breathing heavily. On the plus side, their pace gave her little time to focus on her surroundings and the prospect of scratchy compatriots.

  When Sajid stopped and pointed his torch beam towards the wall, Nikki saw a heavy wooden-slatted door, weathered through time. It was then that a scurrying sound behind her and the scamper of something heavy skittering across her foot, made her rear back, onto one leg, lifting the other and propelling the creature into the air where it plummeted towards Sajid, hitting him on his hand on its way to the floor and sending his phone clattering to the ground. The darkness was immediate and absolute. Over the hiccupping sounds of her own breathing and Sajid’s curses she heard what sounded like a trillion clay paws scraping and scampering over the floor. The stench the tiny claws threw up from the floor was like centuries worth of ammonia invading her nostrils in one fell swoop. Not even in Jorvik Museum in York had she been faced with such an assault. Her legs started to shake and she turned in a circle, again and again in a desperate attempt to escape them, her skin crawling at the thought that she’d be engulfed by the creatures.

  ‘Fuck, oh fuck, fuck.’ She couldn’t say anything else. She couldn’t stop moving and she couldn’t think straight so abject was her fear.

  ‘Nikita!’ Sajid’s tone was sharp.

  When he touched her arm, she jumped and her arm flailed out to her sides. Sajid’s muffled oath told her she’d caught him with her arm. ‘Fuck, fuck. Can’t breathe, Sajid.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Nikki, use your damn phone. Don’t be such a bloody wuss.’

  As his words penetrated the fuzz of her brain, Nikki stopped, stock-still. Her breathing filled the air and as her eyes tried to focus on something, anything, her fingers played over the surface of her phone. Thank God her phone threw off a glimmer of light. Where’s the damn torch app? Shit, where is it?

  At last, a narrow ray hit the dank floor. Nikki, desperate to check out the rodent situation, played her beam over the walls and ceiling, her heart thudding as she did so. Landing the light on Sajid’s face, her heartrate slowed when she saw his grin. ‘Don’t be a tosser, Saj. There’s a cobweb with a spider just to the right of your ear.’

  It was gratifying to see the huge man shriek and duck, his arms paddling above his head, his mouth screwed up like he thought he’d ingest a spider if he spoke. Her only regret was that the beer man wasn’t there to witness her colleague’s fall from macho man grace. ‘Gotcha!’

  Sajid huffed a sigh and with a fearful glance at the ceiling, he lowered his arms. ‘Direct the light to the floor, Nik. I need to find my phone.’

  Unfortunately, his phone had landed in a puddle. Nikki, reluctant to consider what liquid the puddle consisted of, offered him an old duster she’d found in the pocket of her borrowed overall. ‘Maybe just use that to pick it up, eh? We don’t want you bringing the plague to Trafalgar House now, do we?’

  Accepting her offering, Sajid picked up his phone, shook droplets of foul-smelling liquid off it and tentatively tried to open it. It was dead. ‘Looks like we’re relying on yours, boss.’

  As he uttered the words, Nikki’s torch beam faltered and faded a little. She glanced at the battery sign. ‘Ten per cent. Get us out of this fucking nightmare, right now.’

  She stepped closer to the door, turned the handle and yanked. It wouldn’t budge. Again, panic rose in her chest. If they didn’t get out right now, her phone didn’t have enough power to get them back to the Sunbridge Wells exit. Why the hell had they come here on their own? They hadn’t even told Archie where they were exactly. Shit, shit double shit crap!

  Chapter 41

  Springer glared at the pictures that hung on the wall of the spare incident room at Trafalgar House. She was pissed off that she and Bashir had been relegated to this crappy little cubicle in the bowels of the building, with no windows and every piece of furniture being a discarded piece of shoddy old furniture from the renovations. It didn’t help that three incident rooms were out of use because of said renovations and that some of the excess furniture was now piled up high in the corner of this room and covered with sheets that smelled of turpentine and fags.

  Parekh’s words kept going round and round in her mind. The identification of the other remains found at the same site as Khalid Abadi was disturbing and had added both pressure and a new dimension to her investigation. Parekh had been insistent that the remains found some years ago at Sunbridge Wells were linked, and now a prickle of unease kept niggling at the small of her back. She stood up and stretched, placing her hand in the hollow just above her coccyx and pressed hard. Was her dislike of Parekh clouding her judgement? She’d never had time for cocky shits like her. She was sure that Bradford police’s diversity policy was responsible for her quick shimmy up the ladder. What was it folk like her were called nowadays – it wasn’t half-caste anymore, dual heritage or some such crap? Like the fact that her mother was slapper enough to get caught with someone from outside her culture was grounds for Parekh making DS. Talking of slappers, Nikki may well have wiggled her way up the ladder via a jiggle under the bedsheets. How many fathers did her kids have? Huh? And here I am relegated to cold cases no one gives a toss about.

  She exhaled as Bashir pushed the door open and entered with a pile of box files tucked under his chin. As well as balancing the boxes, he was carrying two disposable cups of coffee. At least for a Paki, Bashir was all right. He did whatever she said and, more importantly, he was the source of a constant supply of coffee.

  ‘Any word on the ID of the final remains yet?’ She wished her tone didn’t sound so accusatory, but she couldn’t help it. It was a dead giveaway that she was stressed. Mind you, Bashir probably didn’t even pick up on it. He was a man of little perception, few words and even fewer ideas – the ideal gopher – go fer this, go fer that. That’s what his epitaph should be.

  ‘Not yet. Campbell says he’ll send them through as soon as they got anything. All depends if there’s anything in the system.’

  That was another thing that annoyed her about Bashir. His Yorkshire-isms didn’t ring true. Didn’t seem right – not when mixed with his thick Pakistani accent. Born in England and still sounds like he arrived in the country only a year ago. She indicated that he should plonk the boxes on a table at the side and continued her perusal of the victims’ photos. Khalid Abadi went missing fifteen years ago. Victim two, Leo Gayle, went missing in 2005. Victim three, Lorna Mooney, reported missing in 2008. Their fourth victim was as yet unidentified, but the pathologist thought those remains may have been buried more recently.

  What did it all mean? Were they linked? She supposed they must be. So far it seemed that they had suffered a similar fate, yet Springer could not for the life of her work out what linked them and how they could have missed a murderer who’d killed at least four times over a course of fifteen years.

  The door was thrust open and DCI Archie Hegley marched through. His face was stern and despite the huge wobbling belly that preceded him into the room, Springer had the sense to realise he meant business.

  Archie strode over to the board she’d created and yanked one of the pictures off. ‘What the hell is this doing here?’ He waved the picture at Springer and speckles of spit dappled her nose.

  She screwed up her face and side-stepped Archie, moving behind him, forcing him to manoeuvre his bulk in the limited confines available in between the two tables where Bashir had moments before deposited his boxes. She snatched a tissue from a holder and using exaggerated movements, wiped her face. ‘I’d have thought that would be perfectly clear, Archie.’

  ‘Don’t you use the proverbials with me, Springer. Nikita Parekh is no longer a suspect in this investigation and you damn well know it. Unless of course you’re still trying to investigate these deaths separately? And mark my proverbials, if you are, you won’t be SIO for long, I’ll see to that.’

  Springer shrugged. ‘As SIO I think it’s my prerogative to explore each and every investigative avenue open to me. I can’t ignore a clear and obvious link just because DS Parekh is one of your cronies now, can I? You wouldn’t expect me to, surely?’

  As Archie rolled on the balls of his feet, hands clenched by his sides, Springer forced her lips into a slight patronising smile. ‘I know she’s a particular favourite of yours, but I can’t exclude her from our investigations just yet.’

  Intrigued by the peculiar puce colour that Archie turned, Springer stepped forward and gripped the photo that hung limply from Archie’s hand and pulled. At the last-minute Archie’s grip intensified. He yanked it back, the force of his actions pulling Springer off balance a little. When she released it, he lifted it in front of her face and ripped it in two … then in four and then in eight, before tossing it in a nearby bin. ‘She’s not a suspect. I’ve got my eye on you. You don’t make progress on this and I’ll have you. Got it?’

  Springer deliberately widened her smile as he marched out. Inside, her heart was racing and the fire at the base of her spine now licked up towards her shoulder blades. She really needed to get a damn handle on this and pronto. She turned to Bashir. ‘Well, what are you waiting for. Get those boxes open and get me something.’

  Yep, that backache was rapidly becoming a ball ache. She pressed two fingers tightly over the bridge of her nose before returning to her previous position perusing the crime board. The space under the heading Suspects glared out at her like a Belisha beacon. The absence of Nikki Parekh from the board reduced their suspect pool to a grand old total of zilch.

  Chapter 42

  Deano walked back towards his house. His gut ached and the whole business with Franco had unsettled him big time. How much did Franco know? Was it just about Parekh or was it more than that? He couldn’t shake off the feeling that it was more than just about the police officer. He hadn’t heard from Franco’s missus for days. Okay, she might have decided that Franco was a better bet than Deano. Hell, he couldn’t blame her for that – she’d be right to think it – but surely, she’d tell him. Break it off properly. Not just complete silence. What the hell could he offer her other than a life on the run escaping her psychopathic ex? Still, she could at least tell him to his face, not just cut him off. Which brought him right back to his biggest worry. Had she cut him off or had she been made to cut him off? Apart from the dull ache in his belly, his gut told him that he and Kayleigh were in trouble … big trouble. What the fuck had he been thinking when he hit it off with Franco’s skirt? Fucking idiot, that’s what he was. Now he’d have to extricate himself and God knew that wouldn’t be easy.

  The rain had eased off a bit for now, but he still kept his hood up over his head. It gave him the chance to look around, see who was keeping an eye on him without them eyeballing him doing it. If he knew Franco, he could be sure that his network was keeping tabs on him. That’s what made it so hard to get one over on the boss. He grinned. The thing was, Franco might be able to put the fear of God into the little turds, but he couldn’t give them back the brain cells they’d already obliterated through drug use. The lads by the alleyway were still there, the bitter smell of their spliffs drifting across the road, sharp and strong. At least it eliminated the stench of urine and dog shit that was normally there. They might think they were on the ball, but Deano was aware that their reflexes and observational skills were severely diminished. Perhaps he’d be able to pull something over on those two.

  Deano thought about going over and asking them for a bag of weed but reconsidered. Didn’t want to end up wasted, like them. Not till he’d sorted his shit out. Plenty of time for a joint later on, after he’d come up with a plan. He gave them a wave and yelled, ‘Y’all right, lads?’ across the road. Not exactly Line of Duty calibre, them two – more like bloody Keystone Cops.

  The car further up the lane was still there too. Wankers had parked under one of the few streetlights that were still working. As he turned to go up the path to his house, he saw two slumped figures in the vehicle’s front seats and the telltale flicker of moving light. Idiots were probably watching Netflix on their phones … or porn. The fact that Franco had utilised such numbers to keep an eye on him sent a spike of fear through him. This was bad news. This couldn’t just be about Parekh. This was something more. This was Franco keeping proper tabs on an enemy. Hadn’t Deano, on occasion, been called in to be part of the same sort of surveillance operation? All too often these sorts of stakeouts ended up in a trip to the pig farm.

  He unlocked the door and entered the house and it was only then, when his shoulders relaxed and his heartbeat slowed, that he realised how on edge he’d been. If Franco had lifted him from the streets tonight instead of toying with him like a Rottweiler with a rag doll, he’d be well and truly fucked. At least now he had a fighting chance. Now he could put his plan into action.

  After Big Zee had chucked him out of their car at the end of the road, he’d gone into the shop. The beginnings of an idea forming in his mind, he’d wandered round for ten minutes, playing out the scenarios in his mind until he was sure he was on the right track. He’d lifted a few items from the shelves and paid for them. Back home, he tucked the bag of stuff he’d bought at the corner shop behind the table where the house phone stood surrounded by takeaway leaflets, rizla papers and a half-full ashtray. Leaning back on the cold UPVC door, he allowed his breathing to slow and his muscles to relax. Acrid sweat hung in the air and as he pulled his hoodie over his head, he realised it was coming from him. He raised his head and yelled upstairs. ‘Ma, gonna put a wash on for me?’

  His mum appeared at the top of the stairs, bundled in a shapeless jumper that leached the colour from her face, her hands each tucked into the opposite sleeve. ‘What’s that, Dean?’

  ‘Put a wash on for me, Ma. Need it done pronto. There’s a bag of dirty clothes in my room and these an’ all.’

  He dropped the hoodie on the hallway floor, stripped off his T-shirt, kicked off his Reeboks and added his jeans to the pile.

  Margo sighed, but disappeared off the landing and by the time Deano, wearing only his Calvin Klein knock-offs, had run up the stairs, she was leaving his room both hands wrapped round the bag of clothes. Deano brushed past her, grabbed a towel and said, ‘Hold on I’ll give you these too.’ As his mum averted her eyes, Deano whipped off his boxers, tossed them on top of the bag and strutted into the bathroom, towel draped over his shoulder.

 

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