At First Glance (novella)

‘Since the head of the Drugs Division was promoted to Chief Superintendent.’ Grayson grimaced. ‘I’m trying to go around her, but I haven’t had any luck so far. Hicks is on the periphery of something pretty big, but at present the details are above my pay grade. Suffice to say, they’ll wait and see if the forensics confirm Wiseman as the killer before deciding if they want to take part in a joint operation.’ Grayson’s words were measured and professional.

‘In other words, if it turns out that the killing was not drugs-related, we can spend our budget clearing it with no help from them, but if it turns out to be something they’re interested in, they’ll come in, throw us a few intelligence crumbs to help us solve it, then take all the credit,’ translated Warren.

‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’

According to the doctor in charge of Bradley Wiseman’s care, they wouldn’t be interviewing him anytime soon.

‘We’ve stabilised him, but he’s still unconscious. It’s just as well you found him when you did, otherwise he’d be dead.’

Warren shuffled the phone into a more comfortable position as he pulled his notepad closer.

‘We assumed that he’d taken a belly-full of the anti-psychotic medication next to his bed,’ continued the doctor. ‘The prescription on the bottle was for a month’s worth of pills, picked up a little over a week ago and the container was empty, but even allowing for the large amount of alcohol he’d consumed the symptoms don’t match. We’ve pumped his stomach and sent it off for analysis. I’ll keep you posted, but I don’t think we’ll find they are responsible for the overdose.’

Warren thanked her and hung up. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. If the medicine container was empty, but Wiseman hadn’t taken them, where were the pills?

He reopened the forensic scene update that Andy Harrison had emailed him, then picked up the phone again.

‘Andy, according to your email this morning, your team dismantled the trap on the kitchen sink’s drain?’

‘Yeah, standard procedure. The butcher’s knife had been dumped in the sink, with no obvious attempt to clean it, but you never know what else might have fallen down there.’

‘The report says that you found unidentified pill fragments?’

‘Yes, we’ve sent them off to toxicology for identification.’

‘Do me a favour, will you? Get them to do it as a rush job. And whilst they’re at it, test the empty pill container found on his bedside table.’

Deborah Akinyemi, Bradley Wiseman’s caseworker, was shocked and grey-faced beneath her make-up. She was well under five-feet tall, and Warren had been glad when they both sat down; at just over six feet himself, Warren had felt like he was talking to a child. He couldn’t imagine how she would look standing next to Moray Ruskin.

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Akinyemi. ‘It’s so out of character. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘The evidence is pretty conclusive,’ said Warren. ‘What can you tell us about Bradley?’

She pursed her lips. Akinyemi had made it clear that she was uncomfortable about discussing her client’s case history with the police, having only agreed to do so after a call to the social service’s legal department had confirmed that the Data Protection Act did not apply in such circumstances.

‘Brad has a long history of mental health and substance abuse problems. He’s lived in that house since he was a toddler, first with his mother and then when she died, on his own.’

‘Tell us about his mental health problems.’

‘I’m not sure how relevant they are.’

‘Let us decide that, Ms Akinyemi.’

‘Brad’s mother was a heroin addict. She cleaned up her act when she was pregnant and stayed clean, we believe, for the rest of her life; nevertheless, Brad was born very premature and was identified as having learning difficulties. Not that the diagnosis did anything for him. He stopped attending school at fifteen and never really held down a job; he pretty much slipped through the net until he was arrested for drunken behaviour a few years ago.

‘They stuck him in the cells overnight to sober up, but the custody sergeant became concerned about his strange behaviour. She called in the doctor who couldn’t calm him down and in the end he was sectioned. Eventually he was diagnosed as schizophrenic.’

‘I see.’

Akinyemi shook her head. ‘No, you don’t. Just because he’s schizophrenic doesn’t mean he’s violent or a danger to anyone, except perhaps himself. Forget what you see in the movies or read in the newspapers, most people with schizophrenia lead perfectly normal lives. Brad was never a danger to anyone.’

‘How was Brad’s illness being treated?’

‘Medication, and occasional counselling. He was prescribed standard anti-psychotics. According to his last outpatient appointment four months ago, he continued to respond well to the drugs with few side effects. The doctor had no concerns.’

Warren produced a photograph of the pill container found by Wiseman’s bedside.

‘Are these his pills?’

Akinyemi squinted at the picture. ‘I believe that was what he was prescribed, and obviously, that’s his name on the sticker.’

‘According to the label, this prescription was filled a week ago and contained a month’s worth of pills. The pot was empty when we found it. We think he may have discarded his medication without taking it.’

‘Shit.’

‘What effect would not taking his medication have had on Brad’s mental state?’

‘I don’t know, you’d have to ask his doctor. But before he was treated he had auditory hallucinations and anxiety issues—’ she raised a hand ‘—and before you ask, no he wasn’t violent.’

‘You said he had substance abuse problems. What can you tell us about them?’

She sighed again. ‘Before he was diagnosed, he drank heavily and smoked cannabis at least daily. He was probably self-medicating, it’s not uncommon. When he was diagnosed, he was given assistance to quit both. His mother helped. He was a big success.’

‘Had his behaviour changed recently?’

She paused. ‘Not really.’

‘What do you mean “not really”?’

‘I think he may have started drinking again.’

‘Do you know when?’

‘His mum died three months ago. She’d been sick for some time and he was well-prepared. He’d managed to look after them both as she became more ill and seemed to be coping after her death. Then a month ago, he received a letter reassessing his housing benefit. The house has two bedrooms and the council told him he had to either move to somewhere smaller or receive a reduction in his housing benefit.’

‘The bedroom tax?’

‘Exactly, but there aren’t any suitable one-bedroom flats in Middlesbury. He’s lived in that house for his whole life and it’s where his mother died.’ Anger flashed across her face. ‘In the last three months his entire life has been turned upside down. If he did do this – and I’m not saying he did – is it any wonder he snapped?’

‘I managed to speak to the neighbours either side of Bradley Wiseman’s house.’ Shaun Grimshaw was even more rumpled than usual. The bags under his eyes, grey pallor to his skin and overuse of aftershave hinted at why his other nickname was ‘the Grim Reaper’; Warren wondered how much he’d drunk the night before.

‘They pretty much confirmed what we’ve been hearing. A bit of a headcase but generally kept himself to himself. One of the neighbours remembers him as a kid and says he was a bit of a handful. Nobody was surprised when he got diagnosed as a schizo and stuck in the loony bin for a while, but everyone reckons that since they put him on the meds he’s calmed down a lot.’

Warren glanced over at DC Moray Ruskin. In contrast to his more senior colleague, Ruskin was smartly dressed, his crisp, white shirt still largely crease-free, and buttoned up, despite the warm day. His full beard was neatly trimmed, and he looked rested and alert; his light, slightly spicy, aftershave clearly had nothing to disguise.

‘Until recently, Wiseman was regarded as a good neighbour, he kept the place tidy and didn’t cause any trouble, even after his mum died,’ said Ruskin.

‘Until recently?’

Grimshaw took over again, his gravelly Manchester accent a sharp contrast to his younger colleague’s soft, Scottish tones.

‘The bloke next door said that a few weeks ago he had a drunken meltdown late one night, shouting about the council taking his house away and generally ranting like a nutter. They were going to call the police, but in the end he piped down and went to sleep it off.’

‘That matches what the social worker said,’ mused Warren, making a note to have a quiet word about Grimshaw’s language. Wiseman may be a suspect in a brutal murder, but Warren didn’t care for the sergeant’s casual dismissal of the man’s mental health problems. Warren enjoyed – even encouraged – banter and dark humour in his team, but there was a line, and Grimshaw skirted close to what Warren felt was appropriate. He deliberately turned back to Ruskin, whose face remained studiously neutral.

‘Anything else of interest, Moray?’

‘The neighbour on the other side said she didn’t care much for his new friends. She said she’d been pleased the first time she saw them coming out the house, because she’d always worried he was lonely, especially after his mother died. But she reckons she’s smelt weed a few times and they usually seemed to have a carrier bag of booze, even quite early in the morning.’

‘Which probably explains why he did it. Schizo plus booze and drugs, minus meds – it was probably just a question of time,’ opined Grimshaw.

Warren ignored him. ‘Any description, Moray?’

‘Nothing specific; two young white males dressed in the usual uniform of hoodies and tracksuits. One of them wore a red bandana and was skinny, the other was taller and quite well-built.’

‘Well, keep at it. See if you can get a better description of these new friends of his. Maybe they can shed some light on Wiseman’s frame of mind over the past few weeks.’

The two officers turned to leave.

‘Shaun, a word before you go.’

Kyle Hicks’ flat had been sealed and uniformed officers stationed outside the moment he had been identified. Finally, after the better part of twenty-four hours, John Grayson’s demands that SOC step to one side and let Warren’s team organise a search of the upstairs flat had reached someone of sufficient rank, and a scenes of crime unit dispatched. Both Warren and his opposite number from SOC’s Drugs Division, DCI Carl Mallucci, were present as observers.

The flat was a poky, one-bedroom affair. If Hicks was the drugs kingpin that he liked to portray himself as, he certainly wasn’t spending his ill-gotten gains on home comforts.

The apartment was situated just off Truman Street, one of Middlesbury’s least salubrious areas. A warrant to obtain the keys from the private letting agency had barely been glanced at – doubtless they were more bothered about the cost of replacing the front door from a forced entry than their late tenant’s privacy.

The flat had been rented unfurnished, and despite Hicks having lived there for almost a year, he had bought only the minimum of furniture, with nothing in the bedroom aside from a metal-framed double-bed with a sagging mattress, a fragile-looking wardrobe and a chest-of-drawers pulling double duty as a bedside table. Stale cigarette smoke and sweaty bedsheets weren’t quite enough to mask the smell of damp.

The kitchen-cum-dining cum living room was little better. A two-ring electric hob, a toaster, a kettle and a microwave took up almost the entire kitchen counter, a loudly humming fridge-freezer the only other appliance. A few holiday snaps, fixed to the fridge with magnets, were the only splash of colour.

‘I assume that’s his girlfriend?’ asked Warren. The young, blonde woman appeared in a variety of poses, some with Hicks, some on her own.

‘Yes, Madison Gilmartin. She doesn’t live here, obviously,’ replied Mallucci. ‘We have her details, although as far as we are aware, she isn’t involved in his business. I’ll send them to you.’

It was the first bit of information that Mallucci had given willingly, so Warren decided to chance his luck.

‘Do you have any other contacts that we can speak to?’

Mallucci sucked his teeth. ‘He still keeps occasional contact with his mum, although he hasn’t seen her for a while. You won’t get much out of her; she collapsed with a suspected heart attack when the Family Liaison team turned up on her doorstep. I’ll send you her details also, for all the good it will do.’

Again, Warren felt a flash of irritation that he and his team were only finding this out second hand.

‘Any siblings? What about his dad?’

‘His old man spent most of Hicks’ childhood in and out of prison for drugs-linked offences. He’s dead now. No brothers and sisters that we know of.’

‘What about friends and acquaintances?’

Mallucci paused. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

It was clear that SOC were still planning on playing their cards close to their chest and Warren doubted they would willingly point CID in the direction of anyone they had an interest in. He vowed that unless he was told specifically to leave someone alone, he would track them down himself. Regardless of whatever ongoing investigation Hicks had been involved in, Warren had a murder to solve. Kyle Hicks might not have been a model citizen. Some might even say that Middlesbury was a better place without him. But that wasn’t up to Warren to decide.

Hicks had been a living human being, with family and loved ones. He deserved justice.

It soon became clear that Hicks hadn’t kept substantial quantities of his merchandise in his flat; there simply wasn’t anywhere to hide it. By the time the CSIs had dismantled the stained two-person sofa and his mattress, Mallucci had lost interest. The cheap laptop plugged into the wall next to the large, expensive TV – Hicks’ only possession of any value, from what they could see – had been bagged as evidence by the SOC. A brief stand-off had resulted in an agreement that Warren’s team would receive a copy of any data retrieved from it ‘as soon as reasonably possible’.

Mallucci tapped the floor with his foot, then pointed towards the ceiling. ‘Poured concrete. There aren’t even any floorboards to pull up.’

‘So, he must have kept his drugs elsewhere?’

Mallucci nodded. ‘This place is clearly just somewhere to keep his head down. I imagine he kept a lock-up.’ He ground his teeth in frustration. ‘The question is where?’

‘I might be able to help you with that, sirs.’

Andy Harrison had been photographing the contents of Hicks’ refrigerator. He invited them over. Mallucci scowled at the young DC who’d opened the fridge briefly to check for drugs. Warren kept his face neutral; score one for Harrison’s CSI team.

Tucked between a furry block of cheddar and an even furrier loaf of bread was a see-through plastic bag containing a set of keys.

‘So, you’re saying he wasn’t killed by someone reaching through the open window?’

Professor Ryan Jordan had been kind enough to take a detour to Middlesbury on his way home that evening. DSI Grayson had joined Warren and the pathologist in Warren’s office, bringing some of his famous coffee. Ever since the warning from SOC to back off, the Superintendent had taken a personal interest in the case; he didn’t like having his turf trampled on any more than Warren did.

Jordan looked grim. ‘Crime scene interpretation isn’t my forte, but I can’t see how that would work.’ He swiped the screen of his tablet computer. ‘As you can see, it was a single laceration across the throat, with a pattern consistent with the knife found at the scene. However, the direction was from right to left, not left to right.’

‘Meaning the killer was behind him and left-handed,’ said Grayson.

‘I’ll give you the left-handed.’

‘Why not behind him?’ asked Warren.

‘The car is a three-door, meaning the killer would have needed to escape by tipping the passenger seat forward or clambering out the back through the boot. According to the preliminary crime scene report, there isn’t any blood on either the seat lever or the back seats. It’s hard to believe that there would have been no transfer at all.’

‘So, the killer sat in the passenger seat, to the victim’s left?’ suggested Grayson.

‘That would imply that they knew him,’ said Warren, ‘I can see Hicks talking to a stranger through an open window, but he isn’t going to let them get into his car.’

‘There’s more.’ Jordan swiped the screen again, switching to a close-up image of the victim’s forehead. ‘These bruises are consistent with somebody pushing his head back against the headrest…’

‘Exposing his throat,’ finished Grayson.

‘Exactly. And before you ask, no prints, the attacker was probably wearing gloves. But I’ve managed to identify which digit made each bruise.’

The next picture was the same image overlaid with labels on each bruise.

Warren saw it first.

‘The print was made by a right hand reaching through the window. There were two killers.’

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