Pieces of Me

Carol Mormech breathed a huge sigh of relief. She was finally home and was looking forward to seeing her boyfriend Mel Johnston. She had spoken to him three days ago about her impending return from the week long hen party she had been on in Marbella. Her best friend Leigh Shah was getting married in November and the week in Marbella had been paid for by her rich husband-to-be Deenal Nevers, who was big in IT, but she wasn’t sure which bit, probably all of him Mel had sarcastically responded on numerous occasions before now. However whatever bit it was she was grateful to it, for the free five star hotel the complementary spa, the champagne and the excellent food which had been laid on.

  She had not wanted to go initially but Mel had insisted as he knew she was getting stressed in her accountancy role at Visa, with its never-ending month-ends and reports, reports, reports. But she was back now, refreshed, relaxed and tanned. She had phoned Mel twice since yesterday but only ever got the answer phone. She wasn’t too worried though as Mel was either at work until 9 p.m. or out running. However it was now Sunday morning so he should have been back from his run hours ago as it was already 10:40 a.m. and by rights he should be ensconced on the sofa, freshly showered with the Sunday Times by his side, watching ‘The Sunday Supplement’ on Sky Sports 1. Both the running and work were his passion, which was even more impressive when she thought how he had nearly died two years ago due to two faulty valves in his heart which had given in during the Paris marathon. Luckily he had been well looked after and was flown back to London to have the operation. His recuperation had been slow and his desire to don his running shoes again was a constant worry but he had got harder, better, faster, stronger and was now training to re-run the Paris marathon. She wheeled her grey samsonite suitcase and matching hand luggage down the path of their building in Hampstead, the duty free Smirnoff black label vodka and Baileys clinking together in unison to her footsteps. She hauled the bags up the red tiled steps and pressed the buzzer for their top floor flat on Fitz Johns Avenue.

  ‘Come on Mel, the least you could do is being in when I got back’ Carol muttered disapprovingly at the intercom.

  After three rings she knew he wasn’t there, so she rifled through her handbag looking for the keys. When she had finally dug them out from her handbag, having pushed aside, lipstick, mobile phone, eye liner, purse, tissues and all the other paraphernalia women seem to keep in their handbag she let herself in.

  Carol dragged the bags up the steps and into the hallway. She had a quick check and their mail was still sitting in their tray awaiting collection. This seemed strange as there was too much there for just one day’s delivery, especially as one of them was 4-4-2 magazine, Mel’s favourite football magazine which he avidly ripped the cellophane off every month as soon as it came in order to read about football stories from all over the world like a little kid, mind you most of the time he acted like a seven year old, thought Carol.

  She tucked the mail under her arm, left the suitcase for Mel to come and get later and walked up the three flights of lush burgundy carpeted stairs and expensively wallpapered walls, hanging onto the wooden stair rail which had been stained a deep brown colour. As she finally got to the top and opened the door all seemed still in the flat, she walked up the stairs and into the open plan living room / kitchen.

  Carol dropped her keys and put her hands to her face. Time seemingly slowing down as the keys fell silently through the air before crashing on the wooden laminated floors of their one bedroom penthouse apartment. She opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out, finally on her third attempt she screamed a loud horrific ‘NOOOO’ as tears began to well up in her eyes and she started to shake uncontrollably. More screaming followed from the very depths of her body, before their downstairs neighbour who had just got back from playing golf came running up the stairs shouting ‘Carol what’s happening, you okay, what is it…..’ Phil Haider stopped in his tracks, and pulled Carols head to his chest to protect her from the most sickening sight he had ever seen. For on the floor in the living room was Mel Johnston, calm and peaceful, serenity in his eyes, no movement, no sound, and the sunlight shining brightly on him from the balcony windows. He was wearing his Nike Air running shoes, white ankle socks, his old blue running shorts and his digital watch beeped every minute as the timer was still running, however his running vest lay in pieces, and where his chest should have been was a gaping, festering pungent smelling bloody chest, ribcage torn open and a hole where his heart should be, his insides and a sizeable amount of blood lay all around him, on a piece of clear plastic sheeting, surrounded by towels and bed linen……Phil Haider, dialled 999 on his silver Nokia 6300, with trembling hands, stabbing his thumb at the 9 key before requesting the police and ambulance. He hung up and hugged Carol as tightly as he could and turning away closing his eyes, a tear running down his face as he thought to himself ‘who could have done such a terrible act and why?’

  At New Scotland Yard, on that same day, 10th September, at 11 a.m. DI Ian Carragher waited impatiently in the corridor, outside Chief Superintendant David Bishop’s office. His blue striped tie, which had been a Christmas present from his wife, dug into his neck uncomfortably. Ian was not a tie man. If he had one on, it was usually part undone with his top shirt button undone and open at the neck. He hated ties, always had done, he had gone through his school days either with it tied around his head, knotted nearer to his belly button than his neck, in his school blazer pocket or hidden in the depths of his sports bag, anywhere in fact but where it should have been. And now, sitting in the corridor he felt like he was eleven years old again, sitting outside the Headmasters office, awaiting the call, to find out his punishment for cheating in his weekly history test, all over again. He thought back to his school days as he swivelled his white plastic cup of vending machine coffee around in his hands, as fellow officers walked past, carrying various case files and evidence bags or just chatting to one another as they went about their daily business, their shoes squeaking on the blue and black tiled floor as they walked past.

  Ian, jumped slightly as the door to the office was flung open and a large man with a barrel chest and bags under his eyes came out, a dash of golden blonde hair on his head, arm extended in an expectant handshake manner.

  ‘Morning DI Carragher, good to see you again, it’s been a while, please, please come in and take a load off’

  ‘Thank you Chief Super’ Ian responded and in one movement he shook his hand, walked through the doorway and sat down on a plastic chair, placing his cup of very poor coffee on a coaster on the Chief Supers desk.

  Superintendant Bishop closed the door and walked around his desk before depositing himself in his luxurious, high backed swivel leather desk chair. The chair was deliberately high so, for psychological reasons the Chief Super could look down on anyone sitting opposite him, even his boss, who dropped in from time to time.

  ‘Right then Ian, it seems we have a murderer on the loose, this case involving Saul Barraghan, quite horrific by all accounts, have you got any leads, found anything out as yet, particularly with the possible link to the James Benjamin Langan murder case’

  ‘Nothing as yet Chief, the gun is still with ballistics, as is the bullet. The markings on the bullet are being verified and we will be looking for a link to any other murders. The bullet itself has been identified as CCI Standard Velocity Ammunition 22 Long Rifle 40 Grain Lead Round Nose ammunition. This is the same make and type as the bullets found on the floor at Mr Langans murder crime scene. The gun itself is a Browning 5.5 Buck Mark pistol and is being analysed for finger prints and DNA belonging to the murderer, or Mr Langan. We are also hoping to find some evidence that it was handled by a Mr Richard Bird, AKA Bacchus who has been arrested and charged with gun possession. We got a warrant for his flat and the search uncovered three more guns of the same variety, plus the same make and type of bullets, as well as assorted other weapons and ammunition plus a lot of cash and some class ‘A‘ drugs. At the minute Mr Bird has given us plenty, so we can use that hopefull
y.’

  ‘Okay then and any link yet to the Barraghan murder?’

  ‘Well Mr Barraghan has had his liver removed. This has been verified by the pathologist. Mr Langan had his eyes removed, however at this juncture there is no obvious link as Mr Langans death was probably more gang related but the real question would be why kill Mr Barraghan and then remove his liver. My initial summation was that he was targeted by someone. Perhaps as he was a loner he was easier to get at, the killer knew there was no-one to disturb him so he was a relatively safe target. The other possibility I am working on is that he was killed by a Polish gang who work out of a café on Edgware Road. They are called the Bobo gang as they originate from Bobolice in Poland. I have been doing some research along with PC McGeorge and from the intelligence gathered they have been over here about six years. It’s the traditional stream of crimes, starting off small and then increasing. ’

  ‘Now that does sound interesting Carragher, carry on, do we know who they are, where they live, have we got anything on them.’

  ‘Well let’s see’ Ian paused as he quickly scanned the document which had been diligently printed off by PC McGeorge but he had then annihilated with his scrawling and scribbling and now couldn’t even read his own writing. Okay here we go; the main man is a Piotr Przemek. Not the easiest thing to say obviously, luckily he goes by the name ‘P’. Bit of a hard case this one. Looks like an albino Ving Rhames, big thick neck, I am going to kill you eyes and shoulders like a gorilla. He was the first over here by all accounts. Started by conning the state out of housing benefits, child benefits unemployment benefits. He got caught but not before he had racked up over £30,000 in dodgy claims. From there it was on to stealing cars for a few dodgy fellas’ down in the East End before he branched out on his own.

  He has two accomplices, Yevgeny Dubzcekh; known as ‘Y’ he’s half Russian, half Polish, and half mental. He looks friendly enough, he’s six foot four and a slim build, and his smile makes it look like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, however get on the wrong side of him and he could probably freeze the butter and beat you to death with it…he’s been up on all sorts of violent charges, affray, ABH, GBH. He was charged with stabbing two men in the legs however when it got to court the witnesses suddenly weren’t so sure he had done it. The fact that one of the witnesses houses had actually burnt down the prior week may have helped them decide how best to proceed. The third one is Lech Walesey, known to his two associates as ‘L’. He seems to be more of the brains behind the other two. No violent convictions, but rumour is he is the one who calmed the other two down. Made them more devious not as obvious in their actions. He came over about three years ago we think. Since that time P & Y’s conviction rate has plummeted whilst their assets and influence seems to have increased significantly. The three of them are now driving around in BMW M5s, all black, with personalised plates. The coffee shop on Edgware Road also has a two storey flat above it. It’s rumoured to be an unlicensed brothel; they bring Polish girls over here, promise them the earth then get them whacked up on heroine and force them into prostitution. The property was paid for in cash by a company listed in Bobolice, Poland called the PYL Corporation, not the most imaginative of names and they don’t seem too bothered about hiding their business. It’s almost a two finger salute to us that they can so easily get away with things like this’

  There was a pause as Ian reviewed more of his notes and Chief Inspector Bishop took in the information at hand

  ‘So, what’s the plan then?’ Enquired Bishop

  Ian thought for a moment, looking up at the ceiling for inspiration but finding only plain white paint and fluorescent lighting ‘I think we have two options, we can go down there and ask a few questions have a look around or we can go in mob handed, search the place, get into the flat upstairs, let them know we are after them.’

  Bishop leant forward putting his elbows on the desk he clasped his hands together and pursed his lips in contemplation. ‘Fuck it, let’s go after them. We need to be seen to be doing something. Sounds like raiding the flat is a home banker, and you never know they may have got sloppy and have left evidence lying around. Let me make the calls, we go in four days time at 10 a.m. no messing, I will arrange everything.

  ‘So aside from that we need to get more resources on this. Are forensics and the investigative teams moving fast enough?’

  ‘At the minute, yes, I have no complaints as we don’t have much evidence to go on and these things do take ten to fourteen days to analyse, so hopefully by the middle of next week we should start seeing some evidence and maybe a motive, and potential suspects will become apparent’

  ‘And do you think there could be more killings? The Bobo gang lead is promising but what are the alternatives?’ enquired the Chief Super ‘Are we dealing with some Hannibal Lecter-esque serial killer?’

  ‘I don’t think we should be rushing out looking for people buying fava beans and a nice bottle of Chianti just yet chief.’ Just as Ian was about to continue his mobile started ringing. The Chief Super looked at him accusingly; he was always forgetting to put it on silent before going into meetings.

  ‘Well you may as well answer now Carragher you idiot’ lectured the Super.

  ‘Hello, DI Carragher speaking’

  Ian listened intently before putting his hand to his forehead and letting out a deep sigh. ‘Okay then, I am on my way’ he pressed end call on his mobile, looked up at Chief Superintendant Bishop and said ‘Looks like we may have another one after all Chief..’

  Chapter 8 – ‘But why don’t you know who did this’