Pieces of Me

DI Ian Carragher awoke early on Friday 7th September. It was the last day of his shift and he always enjoyed the weekends off. The alarm had gone off and the dulcet tones of Mr Chris Moyles, the self styled and proclaimed ‘saviour of Radio 1’ had filled the room as he was ranting away about what had annoyed him this week in his usual sarcastic and vitriolic way. It was 7:20 a.m. far too early to actually get up as he was not required into the office before 10 a.m. but it was essential as he liked to shave, shower, dress, and then make himself a full English breakfast to set him up for the day. All the best healthy ingredients were there, eggs, bread, sausages, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, black pudding, and to give it that certain ‘je ne sais qua’ they were all thrown into a piping hot frying pan with a liberal splashing of cooking oil. His wife was always having a go at him when she was around and he was cooking up this melange of assorted fat & farm animals, as she sat there holier than thou eating her low fat low carb, no sugar, no fat, no bloody taste more like, muesli, with skimmed organic soya milk. Ian just could not bear muesli; as far as he was concerned it reminded him of the bottom of his friends’ rabbit hutch just before it got cleaned out. Ian had visions of a muesli factory where rabbit hutches were piled high in their thousands and every morning a team of child slave labourers cleaned out the hutches, and put the contents straight into a cardboard box where it was despatched over to Waitrose, Sainsbury’s and Tesco’s stores to be sold at an inflated price to people who seemed desperate to actually want to be healthy so they could prolong their life, which in effect meant a few more years of senility in an old peoples home absent-mindedly pissing themselves and being pumped full of the drugs so the heart was beating but the mind had long since dissipated into the ether of space and time, and was awaiting the moment it could be reconciled with its earthly body once more. No, Ian was aiming for death in his early seventies ideally in some sort of drunken stupor with his fourth wife, the twenty one year old blonde bombshell lying naked, exhausted but satisfied at his side….

  Ian had just finished his breakfast and was scooping up the last remnants of fat, tomato sauce and runny egg yolk with his last piece of bread when his mobile phone rang. He answered it with a muffled ‘hello’ as he chewed his food and gulped it down three chews before he should have done.

  ‘Hi guv it’s McGeorge, you need to get over here, there has been a brutal murder and you need to see it.’

  ‘Okay, where are you?’

  ‘Strangely I am in Abbey Road again, further up this time near the lights where the council estate is, number 62 on the sixth floor. Can you get here right away as the crime scene team are all over this and you have to see it to believe it?’

  Ian picked up his keys, threw his plate in the sink, grabbed his jacket from the hall and slammed the door behind him. Ian was lucky enough to live in a small two bedroom house in Hammersmith. It had been given to him by his parents. They had in turn received it through the last will and testament of his Grandmother on his mothers’ side, the wonderful Edith Douglas, ten years ago. His parents lived a good life up in Scotland. They had moved up there when they had both retired. They lived an extremely comfortable life as they had both been hugely responsible and sensible and saved all their lives. The only requirement was that he had taken out a mortgage of £90,000 which had then been passed onto his sister, Karen who was unfortunately rather less sensible than their parents and had literally no sooner received the money in her account than she was off on her travels around the world. He had received various postcards over the next two years from far flung places like Singapore, Kuala Lumpur and Sydney. As time went on the postcards had gotten fewer but she was still travelling. She had got into teaching English and loved every minute of it. So as a result his parents then had two worries on their hands. One worry was the thought of him getting shot or stabbed to death, which in all fairness was a slight concern to him as well. His mother always watched the news and liked to send a text message every other day just to check he was okay. The other was now his sister who literally could be anywhere in the world from one week to the next. She had given up coming home but at least now she sent a weekly email to their mother and him which helped dispel the pangs of worry.

  As Ian exited the house he realised he hadn’t logged in and read this weeks instalment from Karens life on the road, he would have to do this another time now as he had to go. It took him thirty minutes to get to the flats on Abbey Road, but then another fifteen minutes to climb the stairs as the lifts were broken. The stairwell was surprisingly clean and the walls looked like they had just been painted as they were a gleaming white and only the odd element of graffiti had been added so far. The usual stuff, Steve was ere, Jason loves Chantelle, call this number for a good time 0752125625. One of Ian’s worst nightmares was to be walking through some rough housing estate and seeing his number plastered in huge letters across a wall, and even worse….no one had rung him! As he finally got to the sixth floor, heart pounding, sweat developing on his forehead, he leaned against the wall for a minute thinking that maybe he should give muesli a try after all; McGeorge came out of the flat and shouted him over.

  Ian collected his thoughts and his breath before walking into the tiny flat. He was taken aback by the scene in front of him. The old green front door had been leaned up against the wall on the right where it had been forced open by the police, the lock, hinges, splintered wood and screws were still lying scattered on the floor of the heavily soiled dark blue carpet. On the left was a small bathroom, but the fluorescent lighting and white tiled walls and floor gave it an almost hospital operating theatre type glare. And strangely enough that’s what it had been used for, as lying on some plastic sheeting with a ring of towels which had seemed to act as some sort of absorbent dam lay a man, completely naked, a huge whole where his face should be and a cavity in his side which had been opened up from his belly button round to the base of his back. Blood lay in a thin, motionless even pool all around him. The towels were a well worn yellowy-white on the externality of the circle but were a deep red internally where the blood had been absorbed. Intestines poked out of the victims’ side, still seeping residue which ran down the victims’ body and silently joined the red lake which surrounded him. As his eyes were taking all this in, the smell enveloped his nostrils and reached the back of his throat where he almost tasted the death and decay. The body had probably been lying there for a couple of days. Ian surveyed the rest of the bathroom quickly. Everything had a tinge of decay to it, the old toothbrush with the splayed bristles, the twisted tube of toothpaste with old toothpaste hardened and yellowing around the rim. The dirty shower curtain, the grime in the corners of the tiles and the bath with a ring of awfulness that practically breathed it was so dirty.

  Ian’s mouth began to water and he felt faint and ran into the kitchen where he threw up in the sink. He regained his composure as he stared out of the dirty window at the superb views over London on a lovely Friday morning, the contrast of the relative calm scenery and the mayhem that was in the flat was stark. Looking around the grotty oak panelled kitchen, with its white hob cooker, small fridge and four cabinets he saw numerous empty vodka bottles. They all simply said ‘Vodka’ on them with a black and white label and were the type sold at local corner shops for £5 to all those who couldn’t afford a branded version. In the sink lay assorted plates, cutlery and an assortment of old stained and chipped mugs, some still with the tea bags in. He had more dry heaved than thrown up he noticed, which was lucky as the forensics mob would have a go for messing up a crime scene if he had chundered over the entire place. The whole place gave off an odour of staleness and poverty and he wondered if Mr Barraghan would even be missed and was maybe in a better place, even if getting there hadn’t been too pleasant. He walked out of the kitchen and this time turned right, down the hall into the living room. The room was packed full of crime scene investigators, cameras were flashing, people were walking round in white suits, there were more empty vodka bottles, an old black and white porta
ble TV, a cheap looking cd player and speakers, and an old sofa and chair which had definitely seen better days. All around the stained armchair lay feathers and to the left a cushion with a gaping hole in it, in front of the armchair was an expanse of blood and brains which had soaked into the carpet, the rug, the old newspapers, pizza boxes and empty cigarette packets. DI Ian Carragher was speechless.

  ‘What the hell has happened here?’

  Crime Scene Investigator (CSI) Belinda Nicholls explained. ‘The victim is fifty two year old Saul Barraghan. We don’t know too much about his history as yet but it looks like he is, sorry was, an alcoholic. He claims disability allowance as his claim book is in the kitchen drawer. He was shot in the back of the head; the pillow was used to muffle the sound. He fell forward onto the floor and was then put onto the plastic sheeting and dragged into the bathroom. The incision in his side is clean and precise and although the coroner will have to confirm it the team have taken a look and his liver has been cut out and taken.’

  ‘Taken’ said Ian incredulously.

  ‘Yes, not sure if we are dealing in some Silence of Lambs-esque killer here or what but this is quite brutal.’

  ‘Any witnesses, any evidence?’

  ‘We have spoken to the neighbours. Saul was a nice enough chap who was an alcoholic. He kept himself to himself really. His neighbours said he liked a drink and he loved listening to Frank Sinatra, sometimes a bit too loud, but never for too long. Anyway speaking to his next door neighbour, a Miss Kathy Bishop, she said she heard him laughing two nights ago with someone else. She thinks she heard a woman’s voice and the laugh sounded female as well. The music was playing for a couple of hours and she said about 10 p.m. she heard what she thought was a dull thud and had assumed Saul had maybe fallen over or something. Anyway fifteen minutes later the music went off and she heard the door close just after midnight. The only reason he was found was because she used to get him his early morning paper and when he didn’t answer she looked through the letterbox and saw blood near the bathroom door so called the police.

  ‘Good god and how about any evidence?’

  ‘We are cataloguing items now. The murder weapon has been bagged and PC McGeorge was just going to take a look at it now downstairs’

  Ian pondered what to do next. He was interested to see the murder weapon and work out what the next steps would be, but as he exited Saul’s flat he saw Kathy Bishop, at her front door, trembling and chain smoking as her eyes looked off into the distance at everything and nothing at all.

  ‘Ms Kathy Bishop is it?’ Ian stated as gently as possible. There was no response, she stood there, rooted to the spot, her chest gently moving in and out the only signs of life, the cigarette in her hand smouldered away, the smoke being whisked away on the wind, down the corridor and back into her flat, the embers glowing at different rates as the wind picked up and then ceased. ‘Err, Ms Bishop, are you okay?’ Ian touched her on the arm and she jumped slightly, the ash falling off her cigarette and onto the left arm of Ian’s jacket. She snapped back into the present from wherever her mind had wandered, perhaps as a defence mechanism to take her away from the awfulness of what had happened next door.

  ‘Sorry luv, I was bloody miles away there….bit of a shock this, you understand.’ Kathy took a long drag on the cigarette and exhaled diligently as a way to get the nicotine into her bloodstream and try to calm her nerves. ‘Would you like to come in; I’ve got the kettle on? There is so much going on next door I don’t want to be in my flat on my own…but then I don’t really want to be out here either.’

  Kathy took a final drag on her cigarette, it came to within millimetres of the filter, before she nonchalantly stubbed it out on the wall and flicked it clean over the side of the flats, it sailed over before being caught by the wind and thrown left and downwards. ‘Come in then,’ She proffered Ian an opening to enter her flat, as he did so the stale smell of cigarettes and ancient furnishings crept into his nose. As he walked down the hall he saw the yellowing wallpaper, and the endless photographs of family and friends, the black and white wedding photos of a bygone era, the virgin bride (was there any of those any more) looking happy with her new husband and assorted relatives, the colour photos from the seventies, huge collared shirts and flares competing against even larger sideburns on the men and big hair for the women.

  Ian entered the living room and sat down on the aged brown sofa, it was made of a corduroy like material and he sank down into it until he was nearly sitting on the floor.

  ‘Milk and sugar in your tea luv?’

  ‘Yes please luv…err sorry, Ms Bishop, three sugars and a splash of milk please.’

  ‘Three sugars…you’ve got a sweet tooth haven’t you?’

  ‘To be honest I normally have four but the wife has asked me to cut down’

  Kathy entered the kitchenette, it was one of those through rooms which were actually open to the living room but you had to go through an archway, it was a way of pretending that the kitchen was separate when of course it wasn’t. Ian took in his surroundings. The television was on, but the sound was right down. Jeremy Kyle was on. Ian hated Jeremy Kyle. The exploitation of the chav’s, pikie’s, the illiterate and the brain dead was all well and good but the outcome of the shows only benefitted the audience as the guests were left in tears or either sadness or anger, their worlds crushed for the benefit of the viewing public as Tracy, Sharon, Mercedes or Chardonnay admitted to adultery, or that the father of the child wasn’t actually him before another gormless lowlife would come out on stage in their best tracksuit and Burberry cap, concentrating on actually being able to walk in a straight line. The two men would square up and push out their chests like sparring gorilla’s as the bouncers intervened and the crowd whooped with joy and begged for chaos, violence and fury like it was the Coliseum in Rome and the Caesar was deciding whether the fallen Gladiator should live or die before the Christians (not the nineties pop band, the other lot) were herded out into the arena and the malnourished lions were released to feast on blood and gore for the massed ranks of Romans sitting in the blazing Italian sun eating monkey hearts and sheep’s testicles and all the other weird stuff they ate in those times. Ian thought it would be a good idea to incorporate lions into the Jeremy Kyle show, at the end all of the guests would fight to the death before the ‘winner’ was fed to the lions…along with Jeremy Kyle for that matter……

  Getting past Ian’s angst at daytime television he also saw a vast array of teapots on the shelves, there must have been at least thirty, some quirky, some old, some elaborate, some colourful, some large, some small but all of them shit. He could, even from this distance see that they were all immaculately clean. Clearly Kathy’s day was filled with tea, cigarettes and polishing her teapots all day. Why do people collect things? It must be something genetic. From when man first walked the earth and needed to hoard things to survive, maybe it was something simpler than that, the brain needing something to keep occupied with. Collecting things was very much ingrained in a humans psyche, it was evolutionary, people collected everything, comic books, chess sets, tea towels, fridge magnets, plates, cars, coins and stamps. The only thing Ian seemed to collect was losing betting slips which were always scrunched up and tossed on the floor of the bookmakers as yet another horse, football team or dog failed to win, obviously due to the massive pressure of knowing Ian had thrown £5 on it to actually do well.

  ‘Here’s your tea luv,’ Kathy motioned as she placed the cup and saucer on a small side table to Ian’s left. Kathy then sat on the other end of the sofa and lit a cigarette.

  ‘So how long have you lived here Ms Bishop?’

  ‘Oh about twenty six years now luv, I moved here in nineteen eighty one, the council had just done this place up. My husband had left me the year before. I had two kids, two boys, they are away somewhere, not sure where to be honest. Their dad didn’t contact them for a while and then all of a sudden out of nowhere he turned up at the door, said he had a great job
in America and did the boys want to go over there and stay with him for a bit. Well they never really got on with me anyway, and round here, there was nothing for them but drugs and crime, and unfortunately they had taken part in both. So they just packed, kissed me on the cheek and said see you later, that was ten years ago now…never heard from them again….its been lonely since then. I am originally from Scotland, Glasgow, so I don’t really know anyone down here. When I moved in everybody seemed to keep to themselves that was until Saul moved in.’

  Ian awoke from his thoughts at the mention of Saul Barraghan’s name ‘So you knew him well then did you? Can you tell me anything about him? It would be good to get some background information’ Ian took out his notepad and pen, and was poised to annotate any details Kathy could give.

  ‘Well let’s see, Saul must have moved in about eight years ago. I heard him moving for a couple of hours but didn’t go out to see what was happening. However thirty minutes later he knocked on the door. He had a small box of chocolates and introduced himself as Saul Barraghan, her new neighbour. She invited him in for a cup of tea and he ended up staying there for about three hours. She had told him her woes about the failed marriage and the fact that her sons had left to be with their dad. Saul had an equally sad tale, probably worse. He was forty four years of age when he moved in. He was dressed in trousers and a shirt and his shoes were buffed to an almost mirror like shine. He had had some bad luck recently. His father was taken ill five years earlier and he had thus been instructed by his mother to take over the management of their Lebanese restaurant. It had been opened by his father in 1964 when they had come over from Beirut to work. The restaurant had always provided a reasonable income and there were three flats upstairs whose rent got them through the quiet times.

  The whole family worked there. His mother was the patriarch of the outfit; she would sit at reception and welcome the guests. His sister worked in the kitchen along with his wife Isolda. His two daughters, Rashida and Jamila worked there during weekends when they were not at school and continued to do so when they went to the local university to study Law and Chemistry respectively. Saul was very proud of his daughters and knew they would do well one day.

  The restaurant wasn’t the best so Saul decided to take out a loan to improve things. He did the place up a bit and got a trained chef in as well. With the improvement in food and the restaurants décor it became successful. He worked diligently as he wanted to make the family proud of him. His father was dying of cancer but he would brighten up when he saw Saul who told him how well the restaurant was going.

  After about six months Saul bought another restaurant and kitted it out in exactly the same manner. However it became a disaster. It started well as he managed the second restaurant initially before handing it over to an experienced restaurant manager. However the recession struck in the mid nineties and the second restaurant failed. Unfortunately he had taken out additional loans to cover the costs of both restaurants putting the first restaurant up as collateral. When the banks finally called in their loans the family was finished. The stress and worry accelerated his father’s death and whilst the family were still in mourning the bailiffs came to repossess the property. In shame his family disowned him. His daughters, having freshly completed their degrees moved to the US to work whilst his wife and mother moved back to Beirut to stay with relatives.

  Saul had nowhere to go; he had lost his family, his friends and nearly all of his possessions. When he moved in here all he had was one suitcase, some photos and a box full of books and small ornaments. Despite this he was determined to get back on his feet. He registered at the local job centre and would always look clean and ready to work. He went for what seemed like hundreds of interviews. He would come back here and knock on my door and I would make him tea and listen whilst he went on about how he was told he was over qualified for this job, and under qualified for that job. After six months he stopped trying, his stubble became a beard and he would be in the same clothes for days. Unfortunately he sought solace in the easiest of places, alcohol. It was a slippery slope from there. He was still Saul, but he was a changed man. Defeated, desolate and depressed. He would say hello to me less and less but I would knock to make sure he was okay now and again. He never forgot my birthday and there was always a tin of biscuits and a card at Christmas. It was a shame really. He was so full of optimism, ready for a new challenge, make himself a success again and contact his family to tell them how well he had done but it wasn’t to be.’

  There was silence for a minute or so as they both thought about the plight of Mr Saul Barraghan before Kathy added ‘that’s what this place does to you, defeats you. There is no hope here, just decay and ruin. These people aren’t living, we are existing, and for what….a few pound every other week so I can drink tea and smoke my life away’.

  A tear dripped down Kathy’s face. Ian instinctively gave her his handkerchief. She sniffed and dabbed at the tears, before looking Ian directly in the eye ‘Find the killer will you. Please care about him; he was a good man who was dealt a bum deal in life. He was an alcoholic but he was still a human being, and he didn’t deserve to die like this…no one does.’

  Ian sat there for a while comforting Kathy before promising to do everything he could to find the killer. She handed him back his handkerchief but he let her keep it. ‘Look after yourself Ms Bishop, we’ll find the killer, don’t worry’

  ‘I hope so love, between the murders, the gangs and those Polish lone sharks hassling me night and day its difficult to get any peace around here’

  Ian stopped, furrowed his brow in contemplation and this latest admission from Kathy and turned round to face her ‘Did you say Polish loan sharks?’

  The question hung in the air. Kathy had let her guard down momentarily and when she realised, she tried to bat the question away. ‘Nothing love, just nonsense’

  ‘Now come on Kathy, I know what you said. Look this is completely confidential, I am not writing any of this down, it probably has nothing to do with what’s happened today but can you please just tell me who you are talking about, descriptions, what they do, anything really’

  Kathy thought for a moment. The never ending cigarette smoke from yet another cigarette wafted up into the air in a perfect straight line before dissipating into the ether near the ceiling where it would linger before being absorbed by the paint, turning the room a dirty yellow over time. ‘It was only a year or so ago. They came round nice as pie, brought boxes of chocolates and cans of beer and said they were a new local company offering loans to those who struggled to make ends meet.’ There were three of them at the time but I see lots of different ones now. The original three looked fairly nondescript really apart from the main man. He had a suit and tie on but he looked about as convincing as King Kong in a tuxedo. Shaven headed, he tried to smile but he had mean eyes, there was no sparkle in them, no honesty, just coldness. The other two with him were medium build, short black hair, they looked a lot more normal, and actually in a suit looked quite respectable and honest. I happened to take out a small loan of £100 as my gas fire packed in, I had to get it fixed, it was essential. They loaned me the money and were really nice for a couple of weeks. So nice in fact that I told Saul about them. I don’t believe he ever borrowed off of them, at least if he did he never told me. However then they got nasty. From owing £100 I owed £1,000. I have nearly paid it off but it wasn’t easy.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they give you some kind of payment book or anything do they?’

  ‘They did initially, but of course when the costs suddenly spiralled they stopped.’

  ‘Can I take a look?’

  Kathy got up from her seat and rifled through one of her drawers. She finally pulled out a small booklet no bigger than her hand. On the front it stated

  Edgware Road Loan Company

  1st Floor

  37 Edgware Road

  London

  W2 4TG

  Telephone 0207 221 6568
r />   This was the same address as a Polish gang he knew of on Edgware Road. They had a coffee shop there.

  Ian had to get next door and quick. Forensics needed to look for this to see if there was a possible connection. He made his excuses to Kathy, politely left her to it and went next door.

  Ian tapped Belinda Nicholls on the shoulder. She was bending down examining the crime markings on the pillow at the time. She stood up and leaned into Ian raising her eyebrows.

  ‘sorry to bother you again Belinda but could you please ask your lot to search everywhere and see if they can find a small booklet with the words ‘Edgware Road loan Company’ on it please.’

  Belinda looked round at the table where the bags of evidence were being catalogued. ‘Oi Tom, didn’t you find something with Edgware Road Loan Company’ on it?’

  Tom nodded matter-of-factly and held up evidence bag number 67 and pointed. Ian could see it. There were blood splatters on it as it had been on the floor near the radiator at the time. Ian smiled. Twenty minutes ago he wondered what on earth the world was coming to and how the hell was he going to work out who had done this. But then a throw away remark by Saul’s next door neighbour and suddenly there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Ian loved detective work sometimes.

  Ian left the crime scene, absorbing the sights, sounds and smells he had just encountered as he went downstairs. He found it much easier going downstairs and walked slowly as he absorbed all the details that had been thrown at him. As he got to the bottom of the apartment block and walked towards the fleet of police cars and vans he saw PC McGeorge just staring at a small clear evidence bag.

  Ian walked over and asked ‘what you got there McGeorge and why are looking so surprised?’

  She held up the bag. Ian blinked, as if not believing what was in front of him, as in the bag, right before his eyes was a Browning 5.5 Buck Mark pistol, the same type of pistol that had gone missing from James Benjamin Langans safe under five days ago….

  Chapter 6 - ‘Nice one McGeorge see you later on’