Lucy Spires – The Blind Detective Read online

  She had realised if she left Farooq El Haj, no matter where she went, how far away she went, he would find her. She would be made an example of never to cross him. The information she passed gradually fitted into place and a solid case was being steadily built. The last piece of the jigsaw was to follow in a week. Farooq El Haj was bringing a shipment of drugs, pure heroin and cocaine, into the country.

  The informant didn’t know the exact date, just that the drugs were coming inside a shipment of handmade rugs and cotton fabric, coming from Afghanistan via Turkey. He was stepping up volume coming into the country as demand had grown and his dominance meant he needed more. Farooq El Haj was paranoid he wasn’t going to get every penny of goods he’d paid for. He always met the shipment, checked the drugs himself, then took the shipment to his base to be recut and packaged to resell onto his network of pushers and dealers. He would check the quality. The drugs were mixed with other substances to enhance his profits. He had learned many ways to squeeze every bit of margin from every shipment.

  Lucy Spires wasn’t looking forward to the meeting the following day as she would need a large team of officers to apprehend all parties, from Farooq El Haj through to the dishonest crew on the ship, to arrest numbers of pushers and dealers. They now had names, addresses, details of a large part of his crime network. If any slipped through the net they would resurface and start the trade again. This would be a massive operation, which would also require using other police forces and European agencies. Her biggest fear was Farooq El Haj learning of the planned operation. She had purposely kept all vital information about potential dates and locations within a very small circle of colleagues. She had operated on a need to know basis. The resources needed would need a high-level budget agreement, but as far as Lucy Spires felt, getting this volume of drugs and ending the reign of a major criminal, putting him in jail for a long time and closing that chapter would be worth it. She looked at her watch; it was now ten fifty-five. She quickly went over things in her head. All the leg work was done. The only final things were the number of officers to be made available and the date the drugs landed in the UK. As she turned off her bedroom light, she checked her alarm, set for six-thirty. She hoped she’d done everything she could to ensure this case would be closed and successful.

  What she hadn’t realised was the network of corrupt police officers Farooq El Haj had on his payroll. This stretched from Afghanistan through Turkey to the UK. He either paid them for information when supplied, or they were blackmailed and in fear of reprisals on themselves or families. Farooq El Haj was kept well informed, even about the pending meeting the following day and had made plans to make sure it would never take place.

  Chapter 2

  15th March. 11:35pm

  At the back of Green Trees Retail Park, on a cold, damp, light rainy night, one streetlight gave a little light so faces and outlines were a little hard to make out. The two sex working girls waited for their next client. A car pulled up and turned its headlights to sidelights as it stopped near the two girls. The passenger door opened a little, making the interior light illuminate. Both could see a white man with a cigarette in his mouth. The taller, blond girl walked toward the car; the passenger door opened further and she entered the car. The headlights were turned on and the car did a slow U-turn and drove slowly out of and around a bend, the sound of the engine fading away. Then the remaining girl heard the whir of a motorbike sound nearing. She thought this is my last punter tonight, I’m too cold! She had heard the sound before, and knew who it was and what he expected. The motorbike looked too small for him, she thought, as he turned the engine off and pulled it onto its stand. The small woman, dark brown hair a little wet with the rain, walked over towards him. She slowly knelt in front of the stocky man; his leather trousers were just above his knees. No words were spoken. This would have been his fifth time here in a few weeks. He pushed his groin toward her mouth, a condom covered penis. She took it into her mouth and began to rock her head back and forward, performing oral sex on him. A few seconds later, she heard him moan a little. She knew it would be over very quickly as he could never last more than seconds. She liked the fact he wore a condom. She detested the way some men forced their fluids into her mouth and all over her face. She knew these were often fantasies not done by wives or partners. She focussed on the money he always gave her without question. She knew he was having an orgasm as his thickset body jumped a little back and forward. It was over. She waited for him to move back as he had done each time before. He had always pulled up his trousers immediately, almost embarrassed at what he’d just done. A second later, she felt him lean forward and felt gloved hands tight around her throat. She tried to take a breath, but his grip got stronger and stronger. She tried to pull his hands away, tried to scream, tried to push herself away, but she could not get any breath into her lungs. She tried with every ounce of strength she could muster. She began to pass out, her body going limp as her arms fell to the side of her bent knees; the fingers on her left hand moved from a clenched fist to uncurl her fingers, then stopped moving. He squeezed her throat long after she’d passed out and knew he’d taken her life.

  He rolled his head back and looked up at the black sky. The cold soft rain cooled his face. He looked down at the dead girl’s bulging eyes, the white of her eyes a pink colour. He carefully pulled up his tight underwear, carefully keeping his condom on his penis; he’d sat through too many American crime series to leave any trace of DNA or any evidence pointing to him. He moved her head to look at her, he thought another drug taking whore off the streets! He thought back to when he was seven or eight and his mother used to lock him in his bedroom and ‘entertain’ her friends who paid her well. In his head, he could always hear the grunting, fierce moaning, noises he never understood, hear his mother screeching in pleasure. Occasionally, the men would finish with his mother, then he would hear his bedroom door unlock. The same man would enter his room and forced him to do things to them, or they did what they wanted to him. He sometimes saw his mother watching from the entrance, no emotion on her face. She just turned away and let the man carry on. At this young age, he knew it was wrong, but who could he turn to or tell about. He never knew who his father was. His mother had always told him he was an unplanned accident from a fling with a Royal Navy Marine. His childhood was tough, with an uncaring, abusive mother. He had to fend for himself some nights. There were nights he would return from school and there would be no mother or food in the empty house. The final straw was her final night of her life. She had entertained men three times. The second had entered his room while he could see his mother at his now unlocked bedroom. He tried to fight off a well built, alcohol smelling man, who pulled all his blankets off his bed and forced him, by beating him, to masturbate him. Following this he left him on the bed naked and he heard the familiar click as his door locked. He heard a knock on the front door of the house and footsteps coming up the stairs. Within minutes he heard the thumping of his mother’s bed as they had noisy sex. A few minutes later, it was over. He heard muffled voices, laughing sounds, then the sound of two moving down stairs, followed by the faint sounds of glass bottles and glasses clinking. He wanted to be released. He made his mind up, then never again. He was now almost sixteen years old and he felt that he was a man. No, never again. He would stop this tonight. A few minutes later, the sound of a door opening downstairs told him the guest had gone. A click at his bedroom door meant he could come out of his room. He waited on his bed. He heard his mother open another bottle of alcohol; he guessed it was probably vodka.

  He waited a further ten minutes. He pulled on his old pyjamas, went downstairs. His mother was drunk, her usual state at this time, almost ten o-clock. It was dark, quiet and cold in the house. He shook his mother on her arm. She didn’t move, just rolled her head and a few garbled drunken words were uttered. He moved nearer to her head, to ask her if there was any food in the house as he hadn’t had a meal for several hours. He tugged her shoulder. Her eyes w
ere closed, her mouth wet with saliva. She slumped off the kitchen chair and onto her knees in front of him. She was so drunk he felt she would start to vomit; she usually did that after drinking heavily.

  He stared at this pitiful sight in front of him. He thought that this person who calls herself his mother doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as him. An intense rage overtook him. He put his hands at the front of her neck and began to squeeze, harder and harder. She put up no resistance; the alcohol in her system had made her senses numb. She moved her arms a little, but by then it was too late. She stopped breathing, yet he still squeezed until his hands ached. He knew she was dead. He had murdered his mother. All the rage, anger, hatred had come to a point that he couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t know what to do. He just sat opposite her lifeless body.

  He reached over and picked up the glass bottle. He filled his mouth with the alcohol and swallowed it. It hurt as it went down. He felt numb, no emotion; not sad, nor angry, just empty.

  There were several knocks at the door. He ignored them. He knew he would never feel another man touching him, forcing him to perform tasks he detested. He knew he would never hear the sounds from his mother’s room while she entertained for money.

  It became very dark. Light from the streetlights showed the unmoving shape opposite him. He stared for a long time at his dead mother. He didn’t know what to do. He felt very cold sitting on the floor of the kitchen, but remained very still. He wasn’t sure what time it was. He picked up the vodka bottle, just under half full, and he drank it until it rolled from his hand, almost empty. After a few minutes, he felt unwell; his head ached and was spinning, and he felt sick. Rain on the kitchen window tapped gently. He tried to move, but felt tired, very tired, so he rested his head in his hands. A few seconds later, he fell into a deep, drunken sleep on the floor.

  He woke to find a policeman standing over him. The local milkman had seen the pair through the kitchen window and called the police. He was taken to a hospital to be checked over. Alcohol poisoning had taken its toll. He was given fresh clothes and a large, hot satisfying meal. He never went back to the house. Social services looked after him. This was the first time in his life he was given compassion and felt safe.

  The police were aware of his mother’s profession and felt she had lost her life to a disgruntled punter. No statement was asked for or taken from the young man. The young boy was never considered a suspect. Her murder was never solved. He was moved around foster homes until he was seventeen. After that, he left to make his way in the world.

  As he drove the heavily silenced motorcycle away, he thought that this was the third prostitute he’d killed in this way. He felt he had the power of life and death. He felt he had a right to rid society of scum, drug taking prostitutes who plagued his world. He felt he had the power of life and death in his hands and he would never be caught. He was far too clever for that to ever happen.

  Chapter 3

  Detective Chief Inspector Lucy Spires gradually woke from her sleep to the sound of her police mobile phone ringing. Picking up the phone, it took a second for her to focus. The screen said ‘Number Withheld’. She knew it was her operations desk at the regional Police headquarters. After a quick intake of breath, she answered with her professional, “DI Lucy Spires.”

  After a second, a familiar voice spoke. “Good morning Ma’am, Sergeant Andy Harrison. Sorry to wake you, but we’ve had a report of a suspicious death. It’s a female at the back of Green Tree Retail Park. Three constables and the forensic teams are on site. Will I show you attending?”

  “Yes, I’m on my way,” came the reply from Lucy Spires.

  “Will you please contact DC Emma Harper and ask her to meet me there, she may need directions.” With that she was out of her bed and quickly brushed her teeth. Her clothes were in an organised way to dress quickly. A navy-blue trouser suit, red polo neck sweater, brown boots. She was ready for the day. She grabbed a bottle of flavoured water from her fridge, picked up the Farooq El Haj file and her phone and handbag. She locked her front door. A peep from her car and she was on her way to the crime scene. The winter was her least favourite season. She hated the long dark nights and she hated driving in darkness, although this time of the morning meant traffic was quiet.

  Lucy Spires knew exactly where she was going. The place was a common working area for sex workers. She had been to this location many times. She had got to know some of the girls during her time in vice. She also felt sad for them as almost all would never have chosen this as a career; most fell into this profession through desperation. Some worked independently, some were worked by men or women and controlled by them. Many had personal issues. She couldn’t understand the types of men using these girls. They were from all types of profession, from builders to lawyers. Some highly paid professionals to foreign sailors.

  As she neared the crime scene, she could see the blue flashing lights through the rain. There was a small crowd, some with mobile phones, trying to record what was occurring. She parked near the forensic van. She could see silhouettes of figures inside a large white tent. The rain was heavier now and colder. She lifted the wet slippery police tape, showed her warrant card to a small female officer, who greeted her with a nod. She had seen her before but didn’t know her name. She walked towards the bright lights and white tent erected around the incident site. She heard voices she recognised.

  “Good morning gentlemen. DCI Lucy Spires. What do you have for me?”

  Two uniformed officers turned to meet her eyes. They both moved to the side and she could see a dark-haired girl, with her knees folded under her, her hair partly over her face. Lucy Spires drew a long, slow breath. She looked at the white suited forensic medical man; he was concentrating on making notes. He was a tall, lean, spectacled man. She had come across him before. She broke the silence and introduced herself to him. He pushed his glasses further up to the top of his nose.

  “I’m the duty pathologist, Dr Seth Hall. We have a mid-twenties female. My prelim examination is that she was unlawfully killed, her life taken by strangulation. A full post mortem will, I think, confirm my initial findings.”

  Lucy Spires looked at the girl with pity and sadness; a terrible frightening way to lose a life. Her thoughts were interrupted as the medical man said, “I would estimate the time of death approximately around midnight. She is soaking wet through.” He looked at Lucy Spire’s face. “I don’t think this is the first victim I have seen. I assisted in a PM a few weeks ago with similar marks, and by the looks of things, her killer took trophies in the same way.”

  Lucy Spires realised he was correct. She looked closer to the body and could see each ear lobe had a line of blood. The killer had torn out the earrings. She looked into Dr Hall’s blue eyes; he had now taken off his glasses.

  “Did he take the earrings post mortem?”

  He nodded as he put his glasses back into his glasses case, which loudly snapped shut. “I’ve done all I can here for now, detective,” said the doctor. He went on, “We’ll take her to the Queen Ann hospital mortuary.”

  Lucy Spires stood upright and began to collect her thoughts and focus. “Doctor Hall, will you please let me know when the autopsy will take place. I would like to attend as I need to be up to speed with this poor girl as soon as possible, and if you are correct this could be his third victim. If so, we need to stop his fourth.”

  Again the doctor nodded in agreement. The crime scene photographer appeared at Lucy Spires’ shoulder in a blue protective suit. Lucy Spires moved out of the tent into the cold; the rain was now a little heavier. She had a lot to do before her meeting with the Chief Constable and the Director of public prosecutions later that day. Just then, DC Emma Harper came up to her.

  “Morning Ma’am.”

  Lucy Spires looked at her, she had been promoted to Detective Constable a few weeks earlier. “Good morning DC Harper. This will be your first suspicious death as a detective. You don’t need to go into the tent. A full post mort
em will have a report for you to analyse. I think they’re finished here, they want to move the body.”

  They both looked at the tent. Every few seconds a flash from the forensic photographer lit up shapes.

  “Ma’am, this is my first suspicious death. I have to start somewhere,” said DC Harper. Lucy Spires looked at this younger version of herself.

  “Of course, you are right, but it’s not pretty,” Lucy Spires replied. With that, DC Emma Harper cautiously moved one side of the tent and peered in. A few seconds later, she came out, her face looking a little red.

  “Ma’am, she doesn’t look like the other two victims. Her clothes are different and her shape is a little more rounded.”

  Lucy Spires was a little taken back. She had glanced at her clothes, but hadn’t picked that up.

  Never judge a book by its cover Lucy Spires thought to herself and turned to look at the bigger crowd gathered. “Now the work begins,” Lucy Spires said quietly to herself. “DC Harper, have you got your notebook. There’s several things I need you to do.”

  A quick flick of DC Harper’s bag and the notepad was in her hand, pen waiting for instructions. Lucy Spires thought for a second, then looked at DC Harper. She was a little dishevelled and wet.

  “Firstly,” said Lucy Spires, “interview the person who found this poor girl. Secondly, try and get her identified. Look for her handbag or any means to find out who this poor woman was. I’m heading back to Headquarters. I’ll find out the time of the post mortem. It’s your first suspicious death as a DC. If you feel you want to be more of a part of it you should attend.” With that she felt in her pocket for her car keys.