Catch as Catch Can (The Merseyside Crime Series Book 1), Malcolm Hollingdrake [best large ereader .TXT] 📗

dust and the two grubby cardboard boxes, she studied the object near the bedhead legs: a piece of an electrician’s tie. Putting on a glove she collected it before turning the glove inside out to trap the plastic within. She stuffed it into her pocket. In Skeeter’s world a bed and a tie had only one connotation and her gut tingled.

The rest of the visit was as expected. Little had been done to raise the hygiene level but it was not bad enough for Jane to close it down. It met certain standards.

Skeeter had seen enough to convince her there was more to the place than purely a food vending establishment. She moved behind the counter and looked at the clock on the wall. Tony had been right. In contrast to the rest of the place, the glass was amazingly clean.

‘Please lift your clock down, Malik. That’s right isn’t it? You said the last time that you were plain and simply Malik?’

Malik tilted his head in indifference. ‘Why?’

Skeeter looked at Jane, and then back at Malik. ‘You’re not posting information to say you have video recording equipment in the shop and if I’m not mistaken that’s such a device.’

Jane moved closer.

‘Is Flam – that’s his name, yes? Your backroom boy. Is he monitoring our visit or is someone else?’

‘Security, that’s all. You lot surround us with bloody cameras. Even on the statue down the road they’ve put one. She’s even wearing one and you then question me?’

‘She notified you, Malik, she told you at the start. It’s recorded. Have you notified the Information Commissioner’s Office and paid the fee that allows the use of CCTV on your premises?’ She leaned closer to him raising herself onto her toes. ‘Look into my eyes, because if not, you’re breaking the law and it therefore is …’ she paused allowing the seriousness of her words to sink in, ‘… a criminal offence.’ She wanted to follow it with the word arsehole but thought better of it with the camera running on Jane’s jacket.

The post mortem report was clear. April checked the images on screen, shaking her head as she started to read the pathologist’s report. The wound to the hand told April everything she needed to know. It was a common injury seen on victims of knife crime. We would all raise our hands in self-defence. It seemed such a waste of a young life but was a scenario that had been on the increase over the last few years. Her finger followed the script on screen, pausing at key places.

Suffering from early-stage Gonorrhoea. Evidence of fairly rough sex – slight vaginal tearing but no other extragenital injury. Petechiae on the neck and high inner thigh. Finger nail assessment shows no damage so it is highly unlikely the victim was raped. Evidence of long-term self-harm. Significant scarring to both arms, some in the shape of crosses and others clearly are marked with what looks like 666.

April looked at the detailed images and could only concur with their findings. This was a troubled girl. Scar, her alleged nickname was now understandable. Reading through the toxicology results it was clear she was a regular user. High alcohol register was also noted. April cross-checked with the girl’s GP records which were few. Moving into the Incident Room she found the name Gittings on the board. Picking up a red marker she drew a line from the name before printing one word: MURDERED.

Skeeter returned to the office area, throwing her car keys onto the desk. They skidded before colliding with a small trophy that served as a paperweight. The empty water bottle followed but found the bin. April returned from the Incident Room.

‘Problem shared is a problem halved.’ There was little intonation in her words, her tone was neutral. ‘We know why Gittings carries the name Scar.’

Skeeter ignored her; the frustration evident in her expression. ‘There’s a bloody link, I know it, I feel it. He’s a bastard and he’s hiding something.’

April moved across to perch on a desk close by and folded her arms.

Skeeter rummaged in her pocket and withdrew the screwed-up glove.

‘I think our girl, Kelly, has been in the upstairs room. I also think she was held against her will. Part of an electrician’s tie was under the bed, perfect for keeping someone attached to it. Doesn’t have to be a bed, it could be a radiator or anything for that matter but it was under the bloody bed. I can assure you the place has not seen an electrician for some time. Bloody shit hole.’ She looked across at April. ‘It’s going to Forensics but I doubt there’ll be anything on it. I want a warrant.’

‘I hear you. I’ve received the pathology result for Gittings and something interesting from Forensics. It was found in her coat lining.’

April held up a plastic evidence bag. Inside was a transparent disc. ‘Not dissimilar to the one found on the beach. The gilt dollar sign is clear.’

‘A pass? They show it to access a place or some goods?’ Skeeter speculated.

‘Strange but unsure.’

‘Pathology?’

‘Suggesting gang stuff, drugs and alcohol, maybe prostitution but that can only be conjecture. An STI, yes, but love bites to the neck and thigh might contradict that, as no self-respecting prostitute would tolerate that. Severe evidence of self-harm hence the name Scar.’

‘Self-respecting whilst self-harming? How do you square that circle?’ Skeeter had a point. ‘Whore, yes, professional sex worker, no.’

‘So, have they closed the kebab place down?’ April asked knowing the answer. They would no doubt play the race card if there was a move on that front.

‘Nope. However, it didn’t score well and Environmental Health have warned of further visits. I can imagine it’ll not be used as an hotel any more. Thankful for small mercies. I’m also chasing about unregistered CCTV. I’ll needle the bastards out with a fucking pin. Getting a warrant would answer so many questions.’

On the outskirts of Ormskirk, Quasim pedalled the electric bicycle towards the