E-Book, Englisch, 304 Seiten
Reihe: Twenty in 2020
Oni Deadly Sacrifice
1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-913090-44-9
Verlag: Jacaranda Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, 304 Seiten
Reihe: Twenty in 2020
ISBN: 978-1-913090-44-9
Verlag: Jacaranda Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Stella Ahmadu was born in Clapham, London, brought up in Nigeria and lives in the UK. She has a degree in Linguistics and African Languages from the University of Benin and a MSc in Information Systems and Technology from City University, London. Stella works as a Business Intelligence Analyst and writes on culture, food, travel, health & wellbeing. Stella believes that her experience of growing within two worlds has given her a unique perspective and she is happy to share this. She has been shortlisted for the SI Leeds Literary Prize, UK. She is a regular contributor to Thrive Global and currently runs the culture blog African Britishness-a celebration of being African and British.
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One
When Detective Sergeant Philip Dean and Detective Constable Toks Ade stepped out of the warmth of their car into the chilly embrace of a winter day, a disturbing, gruesome find was the last thing on their mind. With the wind whipping at her neck, sharp as razor blades, DC Toks wished she had remembered to bring her woolly scarf.
‘Let’s hope we’re not chasing shadows,’ said Philip Dean.
‘Shadows?’ she asked, glancing sideways at him. He was a tall man with thinning brown hair, pale skin and a downcast expression. She had come under his wing as a trainee detective at the Stamford CID unit in East London when her appointed supervisor became ill.
‘Nothing. Don’t worry about it,’ he muttered.
They were at Cedar Estate, a sprawling, human cauldron of a place, to visit a Mrs Bello, whose 9-year-old grand-daughter had gone missing 2 days before. Toks was here to act as a interpreter. The team that came to interview Mrs Bello had complained they could not understand her or she could not understand them, who knows. This would be her first proper case on the unit as a detective. She was relieved to be out of police uniform after 10 years.
‘Yoruba,’ Philip Dean changed the subject. ‘I’m trying to learn. Do you know any Igbo or Hausa?’
‘No. Just Yoruba.’ She did not let her surprise show at his knowledge of the 3 main Nigerian languages. She continued to scan the area as she spoke. Mrs Bello’s flat was in one of the many tower blocks on the estate. She heard some laughter and saw that on the other side of the path were low walls surrounding a wide, raised concrete platform that acted as a bridge and entry to four tower blocks. In what she thought might be Mrs Bello’s block, she eyed a communal bin of over-flowing discarded furniture—mattresses with foamy entrails, chairs with missing arms, a gas cooker with a blackened heart. She saw a few boys joyfully kicking a football through puddles of yesterday’s dirty rain water. As they approached, Toks saw that the boys had stopped and were crouched over something on the ground. She suddenly felt a tingling in her belly from her uniformed days.
‘You okay there, boys?’ she called out.
They jumped back and turned pale, shocked faces to the detectives. A boy with spiky blonde hair pointed a shaky finger to the ground.
‘A hand! Whisky found a hand!’
He seemed to wake up the rest as they tried to all talk at once. Toks turned to a pimply boy of about 14 who seemed to be the oldest. He said his name was Tommy. He was desperately trying to contain a Yorkshire Terrier that was whipping itself against its leash, adding its frenzied barking to the confusion.
‘Whisky brang it to me,’ he said. ‘He dropped it at my feet. I thought it was a stick… I…’ his voice broke.
Philip Dean waved his hand. ‘Boys, move back and let’s see.’
With an eye kept on the boys, Toks watched him take a long look at the thing on the ground before turning to her with a grimace. ‘Welcome to East London CID, Detective Ade.’ He slid his hand into his faded fisherman’s jacket and brought out his phone.
Toks stared at the tiny human hand, severed at the wrist, little fingers swollen and split like a bunch of rotting bananas. There was a stench of gone off meat. Could it be the missing girl? She dismissed it. That was only 2 days ago.
She turned back to the boys, thankful that none had tried to leave.
‘Boys, I am Detective Ade and this is Detective Dean. We are the police.’
‘You’re not wearing uniforms. Are you undercover?’ asked the little boy with the spiky hair.
Toks overheard snippets of Philip Dean’s conversation as she answered the boy.
‘Cedar Estate,’ he said, his eyes on their find. Once he finished the call, he turned to the boys. ‘Detective Ade here will take your names and addresses and we will call your parents.’ He turned to Toks. ‘I’m going to get some tape to cordon off this area for the scene of crime officers.’
With the image of the hand still imprinted in her mind, she moved the children to the side. There were six of them jostling restlessly with varying expressions of awe and shock on their faces. They looked dirty and unkempt in their clothing, except for the spiky haired boy. He was smart in his designer trainers and jogging suit. It was hard to imagine that any of these boys had been playing and jumping less than 5 minutes before. She picked Tommy, the pimply boy. The terrier had now quietened its barking to low growls.
‘Can you tell me what happened with your dog?’
‘Whisky’s not my dog. She’s Sarah’s dog. That’s our neighbour.’ He shuffled from one foot to the other.
‘That’s right, Miss,’ one of the other boys said.
The spiky haired boy suddenly started to whimper and then burst into tears. ‘Are you going to arrest us, Miss? ‘Cos I’ve got to go.’
‘She’s not going to arrest us,’ said a chubby boy. ‘She’s going to ask us about what Whisky found. Like on TV.’
Toks had to stop herself from smiling. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked the boy.
‘Andrew Jones, Miss. 36 Forest House.’ He pointed to the block on the right.
Conscious of their widened eyes on Philip, who was cordoning off the area with red crime scene tape, she quickly took their details. ‘I also need to take your phones,’ she said, knowing that pictures of the find would be nestling in some of the phones, ready to be zapped into Instagram and Snapchat.
‘Miss, we need our phones!’ said Spiky boy.
‘I promise we will return them, but I need to speak to your parents before you go.’
She held her hand out and with low mutterings and grumbles they handed her their phones.
‘Right,’ she turned to little spiky hair. ‘Shall we start with you?’
Toks made the calls one at a time and spoke to parents and carers, conscious of Philip’s movements. Some sounded anxious and others indifferent. She made careful note before turning to the boys.
‘You can go now. Your families are expecting you.’
As if in silent agreement, they turned and ran. Soon each disappeared into a block. The now empty space held the ghost of their previous laughter. Toks and Philip heard sirens and within minutes police cars started to converge around them. The place had started to swarm with curious occupants of the tower blocks and uniformed officers were trying to push them back. SOCO, the Scene of Crime Officers arrived in their van and Toks walked closely behind Philip as he showed them the find.
‘The dog was digging the grass in that corner…’ he said. Her eyes followed his finger, pointing to a small bushy clump clinging to the wall of the plateau, ‘…and brought what it’s owner thought was a stick…’
She saw that SOCO were not wasting any time as they set to work videoing and photographing the scene. They began to fan out and started the slow task of combing the area. She shivered. Who was this child? It was a Black child, that much she could see. Were there more body parts to discover? A mist of rain started and she prayed it away under her breath. It was enough that it had rained yesterday with some vital evidence now perhaps washed away. They didn’t need more.
What seemed to be hours later, Detective Chief Inspector Stephen Jackson arrived, followed by Dr Olive Rothman, the home office pathologist. Toks knew her by sight as she had attended a few of her crime scenes when she was a uniform. Dr Rothman had a smooth oval face and glossy dark hair that was pulled back in a chignon this evening. Her delicate build was sheathed in a well cut, black wool coat. Toks immediately felt like an elephant beside a ballerina.
‘Hello, what have we got here?’ Dr Rothman said in a deep melodious voice that was hard to equate with her petite build. She put down a large black bag. ‘It had better be good, Philip. That was a great concert you pulled me out of.’ She gave him a tight smile before walking straight to the cordoned off area. She fluidly bent down and used a gloved hand to carefully turn the hand palm up. Toks heard her swift intake of breath. She rummaged in her bag until Toks saw her bring out a magnifying glass. Philip had also crouched down beside her. They began a muttered conversation. DCI Jackson, who had been unusually quiet, looked at them with an irritated expression. He always reminded Toks of a big gruff bear. ‘Anything we need to know?’ he growled. Rothman looked up as Philip stood, his face impassive.
‘What is it, Olive?’ asked Jackson.
She pressed her lips together and Toks tensed. ‘The palm is scarred, like it was pressed on some hot surface,’ she said. ‘Possibly an electric hob.’
Toks found it difficult to distinguish a burn on the rotted palm.
Jackson frowned and puffed out his jowly, red-veined cheeks. ‘Some kind of abuse?’
‘I don’t know,’ the pathologist answered. ‘I’ll try and find out more once I get it to the lab. We are looking at a rot that would have started a week or more ago. I suggest you start looking for a body.’ She straightened. ‘I wish you luck with this one, guys. I hope we haven’t got another Alpha on our...
