Death By Dangerous (14 page)

Despite his leg, Anderson's step quickened down Water Lane.

The walk from the station to what had been the marital home was only fifteen minutes, but his desperation for answers made it seem like an eternity.

Hussain's revelation about Mia's infidelity was eating him up. He wasn't sure why. He didn't even know if he still loved her – ever really loved her. Perhaps it was the humiliation – the rejection – the not knowing that he couldn't stand. He was going to get the truth. It had to be face-to-face, while the kids were at school.

He hurried up the garden path, despite his injury. The place seemed different, alien almost. Anderson knocked and waited, fidgeting nervously.

The door was flung open, then a flicker of disappointment crept across Mia's face. ‘Oh, it's you. What do you want?'

‘Were you expecting someone else?' His jealousy had revealed his hand in the first question.

Mia held the door firmly, preparing for battle. ‘I think you'd better go. You know the children aren't here.'

Such coldness. He'd looked after her all these years and this was his reward. Tossed out like an old pair of shoes. ‘Can I come in?'

Mia remained resolute.

‘Please? Just for a few minutes? I don't want to do this on the doorstep.'

Sighing, she relented. She led him into the kitchen. ‘Make it quick.'

This time he disguised his emotions. ‘I was worried about you, Mia. Whether you had enough money?'

‘You know, I get by. I have some savings, but there was no point asking you. You haven't got any.'

A bleep from a mobile on the worktop – a text − pulling Mia's eyes. Anderson's followed. They both froze for a moment, then Anderson moved towards the handset. Mia lunged, clumsily grabbing hold of it. Anderson gripped her arm. ‘Who was it?'

‘None of your business.' Mia jutted out her chin, her eyes wide with mockery, enjoying her husband's pain and her power over him.

Anderson tried to wrestle the phone from her grasp.

‘What are you going to do, hit me?'

Anderson stopped, surprised by the question. ‘Hit you? I've never hit you.'

Mia pulled away victorious. ‘I think you'd better leave. Go on, get out.'

Anderson could see her contempt for him. ‘I know you're seeing someone. I have a right to be told who. Is it someone I know?'

‘My personal life is none of your concern, now piss off, John.'

He opened his mouth to protest but there was no point. And he didn't have the strength. Silently he turned and shambled out into the garden. The slam of the front door made him flinch. His legs buckled. Something from deep within stopped him falling. He straightened up, and limping slightly, headed back towards the station.

His phone rang. His first thought was Mia. Maybe she wanted to apologise? He checked the screen: ‘unknown'.

‘Hello?' All he could hear was laughter. Male.

‘Hello? Who is this?'

‘You're a—'

The obscenity took his breath away.

‘You're going down.' More laughter.

‘Who is this?'

The call ended.

Anderson was stunned. He didn't recognise the voice. It could've been Tredwell's. He seemed to have so many enemies. So few friends.

*

The platform at Wilmslow station was empty. Anderson stood, contemplating his life. Why couldn't he just give up, throw himself under a train? They'd all be better off without him. Even the boys.

The crackle from the tracks signalled an approaching train. He took a step forward to the platform's edge. Then…

The train arrived. Anderson had missed his opportunity. What was that blasted thing inside that made him carry on?

Hope.

Anderson alighted at Piccadilly, still shaken by his earlier thoughts. He trudged back to the flat.

On entering he heard a voice call out a greeting. It startled him.

Orlando West appeared in the hallway, still wearing his coat. ‘Hello, old chap. Didn't want to scare you. Wanted a chat.' West went on nervously: ‘Hope you don't mind me letting myself in?'

After an uncomfortable silence, Anderson replied, ‘No, of course not, it's your flat after all. What's up?' Anderson had never seen West so unsure of himself.

‘It's the apartment. You know, with the trial on Monday.' West held out his hands, palms up in a gesture of resignation.

Anderson was slow to catch on. ‘I don't get what you mean, Orlando?'

‘Chambers had a vote. They think it's inappropriate for you to stay here during the trial. We must be seen to take a neutral stance.'

‘But… it's
your
flat.'

‘I know, but I can't run roughshod over the will of chambers. I am the head, after all. You understand, old chap. But I'll still be giving character evidence.'

Anderson watched West reach for the front door, desperate to avoid any further discussion. Anderson could only mutter, ‘Right, OK.' Then: ‘And thanks for the use of it. I'm really grateful.'

‘Not a word of it,' replied Anderson's old pupil-master as he disappeared out of the door. Then, over his shoulder: ‘Need you out by Sunday. There's a good fellow.'

Anderson closed the door.

He prayed for the end.

‘Can you stand still for five minutes, Tahir?'

Safa's husband didn't hear her, but kept striding up and down the kitchen. The smell of saffron filled the air. Anderson and Adey were coming to the house for a final con before the trial on Monday.

Hussain felt he'd achieved nothing since getting involved. But that wasn't why he was pacing like a caged animal.

‘I knew you shouldn't have got involved. You couldn't walk away, could you?' chided Safa. ‘What's Anderson ever done for you anyway?'

‘Hush woman. Stop your nagging.'

‘You stopped him. He was going to plead guilty. What if Ahmed finds out?'

‘He won't.'

‘Tell me exactly what he said?'

‘I've already told you a hundred times.'

A knock at the door stopped the argument from escalating. ‘You'd better not let Anderson know anything about this,' Hussain warned his wife.

It was Adey who had arrived first. She took one look at Hussain's face and knew something was up.

‘Don't ask!' he snapped, leading Adey into the kitchen.

She exchanged concerned glances with Safa.

Anderson's arrival seconds later prevented any discussion between the two most important women in Hussain's life, much to his relief.

Adey noticed Anderson's appearance had deteriorated further in the short time that she'd not seen him. He'd lost more weight and looked exhausted. An unexpected rush of affection overcame her.

‘Are you OK, John?' asked Hussain, having made the same observations as Adey.

‘Yeah, I'm fine,' he replied wearily. ‘I've just seen Orlando West. He's told me I've got to leave the flat.'

‘You're kidding?'

‘No. He doesn't want me staying there during the trial.' Anderson slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. The abandonment of his only real friend had taken its toll. ‘Says it's unfair on chambers to be associated with me when we don't know which way it will go. He was very apologetic.'

‘Bullshit,' Adey replied. ‘He's punishing you for not pleading guilty.'

‘And for instructing me,' added Hussain, shooting his wife a look that only a spouse could read. She imperceptibly shook her head. Anderson would have to find somewhere else to stay.

Anderson shrugged. ‘Oh, and someone rung me up to tell me I'm a – well – the “c” word − that I'm going to prison. Excuse my French.'

‘Give me your phone,' demanded Adey. ‘Have you got a number?'

‘Unknown caller,' replied Anderson, handing it over.

Adey pressed a few buttons and started making notes.

‘Do you think it was Tredwell? Should I report it to Taylor?'

‘What's the point?' replied Adey. ‘Half of Manchester thinks you're a—'

‘Thank you, Adey,' interjected Hussain in a tone of mild rebuke. He could see Anderson wasn't in any state to receive more knocks right now. ‘Of course it could be Tredwell. But it could also be a random nutcase. That line is going nowhere for us, John.'

‘So what line of enquiry
is
going somewhere?' Anderson asked. ‘It's Friday night, the trial is on Monday. From where I'm sitting, we've got absolutely nothing – no defence.'

Nobody spoke.

Eventually, Adey offered all she had: ‘Connor and Tilly are an item and were at the time of the crash.'

‘And?' replied Anderson, only mildly interested.

‘And nothing,' said Adey. She wasn't going to dress it up.

‘More importantly, have you found out who's sleeping with my wife yet?'

‘No, not yet.'

Anderson sighed and let his head fall into his hands.

‘You can stay with me if you want?'

Anderson looked up. Had Adey said that?

‘It's a shithole in Hulme, but I've got a spare room.' She winked. ‘As long as you don't try anything.'

Everyone laughed apart from Anderson, who turned crimson. Once he'd composed himself he said: ‘I don't know what to say. Thank you.'

‘Don't say anything, just focus, because we do have a lead that we need to discuss.'

Anderson perked up and paid full attention whilst Adey explained in detail the contents of Heena Butt's handbag, including her phone and the handwritten note concealed inside.

Anderson kept repeating ‘05 man'.

‘What does it mean?'

Adey shrugged.

Hussain took a seat at the table in front of Anderson. ‘We can't work it out.'

‘Maybe it's a flight number?' Safa suggested.

‘Possibly, I'll check it out,' Adey replied.

Anderson acknowledged the contribution with a grateful nod. ‘Do you still think she's a prostitute?' he asked outright.

Adey thought for a moment. ‘I don't know. It all seemed so—'

‘So what?'

‘Clinical. No clutter. Who would have a bag like that?'

‘Not a hooker,' replied Anderson. ‘What about condoms?'

Such an obvious point. Why hadn't it occurred to her? ‘None.' She'd been blinkered by the assumption of Anderson's guilt − a dangerous state of mind for a criminal defence lawyer. She wouldn't make that mistake again.

‘I did a case once,' said Hussain. ‘The deceased was a man, but he too had almost nothing to identify him.'

‘And did you find out who he was?' asked Anderson.

‘Yes.' Then tentatively: ‘He was an assassin.'

Nobody offered a reply.

Anderson broke the silence. ‘So who employed Heena Butt? Waqar Ahmed?'

Nobody had an answer. It was all speculation – no hard evidence to go on. Every enquiry seemed to lead to more unanswered questions.

The final conference before trial and as usual, no further forward.

A young wooden top lifted the cordon marking out the crime scene to allow DI Taylor through. Nice touch. He felt like a celebrity under the gaze of the gathering crowd.

‘Body's upstairs, sir.'

Taylor didn't react. Important to show the new recruits that he'd seen it all before. Privately, he was delighted to be back on a proper homicide, not nannying some poxy death by dangerous as a favour for the DCI just because the suspect was a big cheese in the legal world. He had better things to do.

The terraced house was in a Rusholme side street, just off the main drag. It stank of untreated damp. Rancid carpets and rubbish everywhere. Unlived in, the property had the feel of a crack house, or was at least used for some nefarious purpose; certainly not a bog-standard dwelling. The SOCO photographer's flash blinded Taylor momentarily as he walked into the upstairs bedroom. The emerging vision was of a naked man – Asian – on his back with both hands tied to the bedposts. His stomach and chest were punctured with numerous stab wounds.

‘Another bloody sex crime,' Taylor muttered, almost in a groan.

‘I doubt it very much,' offered a cheery female voice. A plump woman in her fifties, wearing a white paper suit, took off her glove and offered a hand. ‘Maggie Blunt, forensic pathologist.'

Taylor shook it enthusiastically. He'd been in the job long enough to know these experts invariably pushed a murder enquiry forward at breakneck speed. ‘Why do you say that?'

‘No marks on the wrists. He would have struggled. And look here.' Blunt pointed to a couple of cuts to the right forearm. ‘Classic defensive injuries. This man was tied up after he was dead.'

‘Oh yes,' Taylor replied, marvelling at her analysis. ‘Ritual?' he suggested, without thinking it through.

‘Doesn't have that feel. It's only tying him up. My instincts tell me it was a rather muddled attempt to throw you off the scent. I can't decide if the number of stab wounds was part of a frenzied attack or just to confuse.'

‘You're saying it could be a professional hit?'

Blunt turned her attention from Taylor, back to the corpse. Pensively: ‘Yes, probably. Or at the very least, with a motive other than sexual gratification.'

‘Do we have a name for him?'

‘Yes, gov,' replied DC Waters, flicking through a small notebook recovered from the deceased's jacket pocket. Like Blunt he was in a white paper suit, though unlike her, Taylor thought he looked ridiculous. ‘Waqar Ahmed.'

Taylor recognised the name immediately. ‘Not the fella Anderson was prosecuting?'

‘The very same, gov. You'd better have a look at this too.' Waters showed the notebook to Taylor with a plastic gloved hand, holding a page open.

‘What am I looking at?' Taylor asked impatiently.

‘Looks like a dealer list. It's certainly a debtors list. Look at that entry. It's a lot of money, gov.'

Taylor went down the list of names and figures until he came to the one by Waters' thumb. ‘20k – Tahir Hussain.' Taylor looked up at Waters, catching up. ‘Hussain was his brief? Dodgy fucker.'

Waters nodded. ‘Definitely makes him a suspect. We're going to have to pull him in, aren't we?'

Taylor took a deep breath then exhaled. ‘Yes, but it's going to cause mayhem – Anderson's trial starts Monday and Hussain is supposed to be defending him.'