Last Request. Liz Mistry
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Nikki doubted that was true. Saj was nothing if not an annoying little, or rather, big shit who would take great delight in making her jump. But now wasn’t the time to address that. ‘What we got?’
‘Not sure, think the builders found summat.’
‘Duh, you don’t say?’ Nikki belted him sharply on the arm. ‘For God’s sake get a move on, Saj. Let’s see what we got.’
With a quick glance down at her shiny DMs, Nikki stepped into the slurry, ignoring the grin that the DC sent in her direction. Trust him to have his wellies with him. Maybe she’d just have to make sure she splashed a bit of muck on the trousers of his too-bloody-suave suit as she traipsed to the scene. The sludge was like walking through quicksand. Not that Nikki had ever walked through quicksand but, hey – she had an imagination, didn’t she? The rain dribbled down the back of her neck and she wished she’d had the foresight to grab her parka before she left home. Sajid of course was in an ultra-smart raincoat – probably Armani as opposed to her Primani.
Shoving her fists into the pockets of her jacket, she squelched forward, Sajid following behind, like they were on a bloody bear hunt or something. Nikki saw that at last they’d managed to erect a tent. God only knew how that was going to stay upright in this weather. On reaching it, Nikki stuck her head in. ‘Boiler suits? One small, one extra-extra-large with a doubly big hood for Sajid’s over-inflated head.’
Gracie laughed and gestured to a lidded plastic box that stood by the tent flap. ‘Help yourself. Not that I think it’ll do any good. Doubt we’ll find owt forensically usable in this weather. Bloody crime scene nightmare, this is. Body’s in that hole there.’
The hole was about four foot by four – a little shorter than a grave and a little wider. Rivulets of mucky water seemed to be forging into the hole from all directions. That would be a problem for the crime scene techs. A criss-cross of muddy boot prints were rapidly being filled by the rivulets pouring towards the hole.
Gracie grimaced. ‘It’s on a slope – gonna be a nightmare to contain the water. We’ll need to keep everything we drain just in case there’s any evidence. Bloody weather!’
Nikki felt something soft slap her back and turned to see Sajid had thrown a suit to her. ‘Hobbit size – just for you.’
‘Yeah, Troll size for you then or Orc – whichever’s the biggest and ugliest.’
Even before they’d managed to struggle into their suits, Nikki’s was damp with mucky streaks all over the legs. A quick glance told her that, as expected, Sajid had managed to get his on over his dirty wellies and still had only a little bit of muck around the ankles. The man was a bloody contortionist. How the hell could he do that?
As Nikki took a couple of steps towards the hole, Gracie grabbed her arm. ‘It’s slippy. We’re not sure if the sides are going to hold. Don’t get too close.’
Heeding her warning, Nikki stood her ground, but leaned forward and peered into the rapidly filling cavity. Inside she could see the telltale shape of a skull and what might have been an arm, sticking out. ‘It’s a skeleton.’
‘Nobody tell you that? The bloke who found it did say that when he phoned it in.’
Nikki wasn’t surprised that a key detail like that hadn’t made its way to her ears. ‘Who’ve you called?’
‘Langley Campbell’s on his way.’
Beside her, Nikki sensed Sajid tense and then a voice said, ‘No, he’s not, he’s here.’
Nikki turned around to see the pathologist shimmy through the opening, already wearing a Tyvek suit and carrying his bag of tools. Sajid shuffled his feet and edged behind Nikki, avoiding Langley. Ignoring Sajid’s rudeness, Nikki smiled at the pathologist. ‘Don’t think this’ll be yours for long, Langley. It’s a skeleton and it looks like it’s been there for ages. What do you think?’
Langley edged as close to the hole as he could, peered over and then exhaled. ‘Got owt to put down over this bog, Gracie? I’ll lie on my stomach – get a better look that way.’
Gracie and one of her team, with Sajid and Nikki’s help, managed to slide a plastic sheet over the mud and Langley knelt on it before stretching his body along the sheet so he could examine inside. ‘Hold my feet, someone. Last thing I want is to slide into this morass.’
Nikki nudged Sajid, who reluctantly leaned over and held on with his huge hands circling the pathologist’s ankles whilst everyone else waited for Langley’s opinion.
‘Look, visibility is rubbish. But there’s a huge crack in that skull – whether it’s peri or post-mortem, I can’t say for sure yet. But I can tell you that the skull looks to have been there for at least ten years and it’s human and I can see metacarpal bones, an ulna and a radius. You’ll be needing to get in a forensic anthropologist.’
Nikki uttered a silent, ‘Yeah!’ to herself. Thank God! This one was someone else’s business, not hers. They had a cold case team for this sort of thing and she’d be happy to hand this over. She had more important things to deal with on the Listerhill Estate and a decade-old murder, for that’s what it surely must be, wasn’t going to detract from her little discussion with Deano Gilmartin.
Who’d have thought it? For years they’d been banging on about doing up the Odeon. Years! Now they’ve finally started – and I’ve been waiting, wondering when they’d get round to that car park. Wondering how far down they’d dig, how far they’d need to go. Some days I convinced myself they’d leave the foundations – the ones they put in fifteen years ago. Other days I was certain that they’d pull the lot up. Made sense really. They’d need to go deep if they were going to extend their plumbing and their electrics – stood to reason, didn’t it?
It’s been grand watching them, waiting to see when they’d hit gold. When they started near the building, I knew who they’d find. I nearly pissed myself though when I saw who rolled up from the constabulary. Couldn’t have planned it better if I’d tried. Nikita Parekh! I’ve seen her loads over the years. ’Course I have. Bradford’s not that big a place and of course, she hit the news a few years ago. Got her that jammy promotion on the back of it.
They all mouth off about the Yorkshire Ripper and the Crossbow Cannibal, but they’re amateurs compared to me – abject amateurs. How fucking sick of them to go for women – prostitutes. Disgusting really. Sexual motivation makes me sick, makes me want to vomit. I can feel the hatred surging in my stomach. I knew a man like that once but he’s where he belongs now If you’re gonna rid the world of scum, make it the right sort, eh? Them that deserve it – not just so you can get your rocks off.
Wonder when they’ll realise though. Wonder when they’ll expand their horrid little narrow minds and see what’s really going on here. Don’t think I’ve owt to worry about for now. Don’t think they’ve got the brains. They’ve already let one slip through the crack – bet they’ll do the same this time. They’ve got no imagination, that’s their problem – no imagination at all.
Listerhills was a strange estate. A combination of terraced houses backing onto one another and worn cobbled alleyways like moats winding between them. Running at either end, like the top and bottom strokes of a capital I, were two Seventies-style ex-council-housing estates. As a whole, the area was known as Listerhills despite the fact there wasn’t a hill in sight and Lister – presumably he of Lister woollen mills fame, Samuel Lister – was long dead. What made Listerhills so notable was that unlike many of the Bradford estates, it was a hotchpotch of races and cultures. Bordering the university and being within spitting distance of the city centre, it was unique. In Bradford, the word estate