To the Grave: Joe Romano crime thrillers, #2

TO THE GRAVE

by

John Barlow

TUESDAY

1

2

3

WEDNESDAY

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

THURSDAY

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

FRIDAY

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

SATURDAY

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

69

About the Author

Books by John Barlow

Praise for the Joe Romano series

Copyright

TUESDAY

1

Big man. Tall. Plenty of heft to his shoulders.

He’s in an old grey sweatshirt and joggers. Hair cropped close, thick neck, solid, like the rest of him. He runs a hand over his scalp, fingertips following a long, thin scar behind the ear on the left side.

He sits alone at the bar, a pint of lager in front of him. Half of it left, the head long gone. When no one’s looking he takes a quarter bottle of vodka from his pocket and pours a bit into his glass. For the last hour he’s been nipping to the gents’ for a swig. But now? La naiba cu asta, Stefan! Screw it. Not much left, anyway. Is good, as he likes to say. Is all good tonight. Everything’s good. Only a few more weeks of this.

Then noise. Men burst through the doors, loud, mouthy. He’s seen them in here before. In their late thirties. A bit older than him.

He sighs, eyes down, takes a drink.

Now then, white boy! one of ’em shouts across to the young man serving behind the bar. Stella, if you please! Four pints, in four pots.

The barman says nothing as he takes a glass. He has dark skin. Indian? Stef can’t tell. There’s so many around here. Indians, Kurds, Pakistanis, Poles . . . Difficult to tell. The people, though, they seem to know who you are, where you’re from. Instantly.

Stef looks to his right. The guy ordering is average height. No excess fat on him. Taut. A worker’s build, or a soldier. Dark floral shirt, expensive, faded black jeans. He’s up to the bar now, arms out, balled fists resting on the counter. There’s a jumpiness to him, his whole body wound up tight.

The first of the lagers is set down. Then another. They all watch as the beer rises silently in the next glass. The barman doesn’t even look at him.

Come on, says the guy. Joke, innit?

You know my name.

The man in the shirt turns, looks at Stef, but points across the bar.

He went to school with my sister. You ever do her, Rash?

No, says Rashid as he sets another pint down on the bar.

The guy pulls back, like he’s offended.

You sayin’ she’s ugly? He waits for an answer. Come on, I’m just havin’ a laugh, Rash. We’re gaggin’ here!

Pump, innit.

Excuses, you lazy twat!

At his side, Stef is listening. Hardly understands a word. But he’s trying to glean what he can. He likes it here, the people, their liveliness, the constant chit-chat. It’s a nice place, Batley. Even the name, as if it’s a joke. Batley, where Batman lives. But he doesn’t like the man next to him. He’s seen him before. Rude man.

He looks down, cradles his pint. All day he’s been washing cars. Seven o’clock start in the dark. Hands freezing, slices of bread and a Mars Bar for lunch. How many English pounds do they pay him for eleven hours? He feels waves of dizziness now, the vodka and lager kicking in, can’t calculate. He knows that it’s enough for one pint a night, plus the vodka. Cheapest thing there is. Drinks it all day, a little sip of vodka now and then, helps him get through the shift. Better than the streets of Bucharest. That’s all he knows. And it’s going to get better still. Him and Ana are going to make it better. Make it all good. Just a few weeks more.

The lagers are lined up.

The guy pulls out a twenty, slaps it down on the bar.

"Here. Don’t keep the change!"

His friends reach in and take their pints, move off. But he stays where he is, eyeing up the glass of headless lager to his left.

Your beer’s flat, pal.

Stef tries not to look up, but he does.

Is beer.

Yeah. Flat beer. You drinkin’ it or tryin’ to cop off with it?

Is my beer, OK?

Keep your hair on, gyppo.

Stef doesn’t understand.

Hair, the guy in the floral shirt says, reaching across and gently patting Stef a couple of times on the back of the head. Y’know? Keep it on.

He waits for a response, a sarcastic grin on his stubbly face, the tendrils of a tattoo running halfway up his neck on both sides, snakes perhaps, or flames.

Nothing. Stef stares at him, uncompromising. He stares with his shoulders, with his whole body.

The smaller man shakes his head in disgust.

Not a word! he says as he turns.

Then he stops.

You’re in my country, pal. My boozer. Learn a bit o’ the fuckin lingo, right?

Stef finishes his pint in a single draught, wipes a cuff across his mouth, puts the glass down.

It’s his boozer, too.

A few miles away Joe Romano stands outside a fish and chip shop on the main road through Cleckheaton. The light’s fading, and he’s the only one there. Behind him the odd bus growls past, a few lorries, their brakes hissing as they come up to the lights.

He thinks about eating. A fish and some peas, perhaps, cut out the chips? He catches his reflection in the window. Definitely put on a few pounds. There’s a heaviness in his stance, his frame drooping a little, a pallor of disappointment to his face.

He should be out celebrating tonight with his colleagues. The verdict came in mid-afternoon. Double murder: guilty, temporary insanity. And he’d solved it, sort of. Him and Rita. It doesn’t seem important now.

The defense did a number on him. What exactly was his relationship with the accused? Why had he been out drinking with her during the investigation? Did he have romantic feelings for her? He’d stood in the witness stand and denied it all. And as he gave evidence, Christine Saunders sat there, the beginnings of a smile on her face, a fondness, he thought, as she waited patiently to be judged. Two young men dead, but she appeared to be unmoved by the fact that she’d killed them. The insanity didn’t look temporary to Joe.

Did he have feelings for her? He barely knew the truth anymore. He’d sensed a mystery in her, something beguiling yet melancholy, to be unwrapped carefully, almost to protect her from herself. He’d felt something that he didn’t understand. Attraction, yes. But it was more than that. He’d gone with his instincts. And he’d been bloody right.

Try telling that to the jury.

His phone buzzes. A message from Rita, who is definitely out celebrating:

when yer comin???

I’m not, he says, staring at the phone.

He’s taken a week off work, desperate to avoid as much of the trial as possible. He told Rita he’d see her for drinks after the verdict. But now he can’t face it.

Another message from her:

yer didnt get her nickers down, but we got her sent down! whre r you? we’re in the Brodrick gettin tanked.

Tanked? No. Not tonight.

No fish and chips either, he decides. There’s blues on at a pub in Dewsbury, starts at eight. He’ll go and nurse a pint on his own, listen to songs of disappointment and loneliness. Woke up this morning . . . That seems about right.

Turning away before the smell of hot cooking fat gets the better of him, he makes his way back to the car.

It’s a noisy sort of calm in the pub. Music playing in the background, the rumble of the TV high up in the corner. But no one’s listening. They’re all holding their drinks, pretending not to look at the two blokes over by the bar, whose faces are about a foot apart.

I go, Stef says, but his arms hang down by his sides, feet set. He’s not going.

That’s right. Off you go, lad.

Not good the company now.

Cheeky fuckin’ toe rag! Remember whose country you’re in! You lot still comin’ over here. Workin’ for next to nothin’. Wanna watch that mouth o’ yours, pal. Watch who you’re talkin’ to!

No problem, friend. All friend here.

I’m not your friend! I’ve seen you down the car wash. Illegals, all of you.

No problem.

One phone call, and you’re on your way home. Wherever that is. Timbuk—

Get off from me, Stef says, his body tense, his accent so thick it might be saying anything.

He places a hand on the other bloke’s shoulder, pushes him slowly out of the way, eyeballing him as he moves past.

Eh, manners, sunshine!

Stef stops, his back to the bloke now, who’s started singing.

You are the sunshine of my life . . .

Stef stares at the floor, no idea what it means. Shakes his head.

Off you go, gyppo. Heard of Brexit? You shouldn’t be here. None of you. Piss off back to Poland, you scag.

You go fuck you.

Stef starts to walks towards the door.

The punch gets him on the back of the head, dead center, just above the neck. So hard he’s blinded momentarily, rocked on his feet, falling forwards. He steadies himself, spins around, catches another punch square in the jaw. His arms come up as he drops his weight to one side. With a massive hand he grabs the bloke’s blue neck as hard as he can and lifts him clean off the floor.

Joe pulls out of the deserted car park in his second-hand Mondeo and makes his way through Cleckheaton’s cluttered outskirts. New builds in sickly pale brick, crammed together like Lego between rows of old terraced houses and industrial units. He looks at the houses as he drives, the glow of light behind curtains, TVs on, dinners on laps, kids arguing . . . Too late for him now. Divorced, his son at college. Job done, after a fashion.

On he goes, down a brightly lit dual carriageway. There’s a string of these old mill towns to the south of Leeds. Strange names. Cleckheaton, Heckmondwike, Batley . . . full of pizza places, kebabs, Indian, private cabs, tatty corner shops, carpet showrooms in old chapels. Joe’s a city boy, grew up in Leeds, that’s his patch. But he’s got to know these local towns pretty well over the last year, driving around, going over the investigation, wondering what he could’ve done differently with Christine Saunders. He comes to a junction, the lights at red.

He indicates, takes a left as the lights change. BATLEY, the sign says. Still an hour to kill. Why not? It’s on the way. He’s done this route before, done ’em all, entire evenings alone, town after town, trying to work things through . . .

He became a copper to help people, to do good. But that’s not the job, not really. The best officers in the Criminal Investigation Department ignore all the moral stuff. Right and wrong hangs around everyone in CID, but it’s little more than a distraction, something they’ve learned to keep it at bay. Work the case, get it done, move on. But him? The biggest investigation of his career, and he’d got involved, almost messed the whole thing up.

For the best part of a year he’s been thinking about leaving the department, and desperately searching for a reason to stay. A double murder conviction to his name? Not a bad way to check out of CID. Perhaps he should go now. Get a desk job, push papers around ’til he retires. Put an end to the fiction that he can make a difference, that he can help people.

The traffic into Batley is quiet. On both sides of the road he sees the familiar hotchpotch of small businesses: spruced-up Victorian buildings with sandwich shops on the ground floor, car tire places, bed showrooms, burgers, more Indian and pizza, bargain footwear . . . There’s an enormous mill at the crossroads, glowering down, dwarfing the road, everything around it. But even that’s been reborn as a shopping center.

There’s an edginess here, an air of survival, something raw and brassy that he likes. These towns still have character. They’re still fighting, like boxers who keep getting up off the canvas, exhausted, moving automatically, until you stop fearing for their safety and marvel at their resilience.

He turns down a side street, drives along a bit, takes another turn. Dead end. What the hell is he going to do in Batley for the next hour? He needs to sit down with Andy Mills and tell him he’s thinking about a transfer. But things have been nuts in CID. Andy’s up to his eyeballs in a grooming investigation. Rita too. Day after day, week after week, hacking away at the coalface of human depravity. Plus tonight they’ll already be shit-faced, drinking the pain away under the guise of celebrating a case from last year, and waiting for him to join them.

He pulls in. The street runs on for about a hundred yards; another, smaller mill at the bottom, its brick and stone almost black, windows boarded up. Not a soul about.

Halfway down there’s a pub. It looks rough, the kind of place you wouldn’t go without good cause. He’s got a nose for pubs. Every copper has. Most of the street is made up of old, squat factory units with narrow alleyways between them. There’s an exhaust fitters, shuttered, lights out, and next to it a motor workshop, also closed.

It was in a town like this that he’d met her last year. She’d killed those young lads just a few miles from here. It’s been on a loop in his mind ever since. He’s just been waiting for the trial, for it all to be over.

He checks his phone.

Where r u? from Andy, his boss and best friend.

Where are you, Joe? he asks himself, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

A sound. Immediately he knows it’s not right. The pub door has burst open. A large man in grey joggers comes out, moving quicky. There’s more noise, shouting. The guy’s panting. He pauses to get his breath back, hands on knees. A bloke in a flowery shirt appears, pint glass in his hand. He’s bawling, the tendons on his neck standing out, his voice so loud that the wrongness of it is unnerving.

Joe reaches for his phone, feels the adrenalin flood through his body. Already dialing, he watches as the bloke smashes the glass against the wall, then, from a position right behind the other guy, swings his arm in an arc and slams the glass into his face.

DS Romano, Leeds CID. Urgent assistance. My present location. Ambulance and backup now. Assault. My location now! Now!

He leaves the call on, phone back in his pocket, out of the car, running.

Police! he shouts as men pile out of the pub.

The big guy has dropped to his knees, hands up to his face, blood streaming through his fingers as he tries to defend himself. He falls onto his side, cradling his head as the other bloke kicks him in the kidneys. He twists on the ground, and the man above him begins stamping on his throat, fast and precise, his arms out like an acrobat to steady himself, bawling manically.

Police! Joe shouts as he runs.

There’s a dull, cracking thud each time the foot makes contact with the guy’s neck. He curls up into a ball, the collar of his grey sweatshirt turning red, his body utterly still.

Joe has his police warrant card out. He’s shouting as he holds it up. Everybody’s shouting now, but no one else intervenes. The attacker’s hand is covered in blood, and there’s snot bubbling from his nose, saliva around his mouth as he snarls with rage, ranting incoherently as he kicks and kicks. Joe tries to pull him away, struggles to get hold of the silky shirt. He gets an arm and shoulder between the man and his victim. A few others now weigh in, helping Joe to pull him back. It takes three of them to drag him away.

Joe drops to his knees. The victim is silent, but he’s breathing. His face is a mess, one eye open, the other closed, a gash right across it, the socket pooling with blood. On his cheek a shard of glass is lodged in the flesh, more blood oozing out. Joe decides to leave it there, checks that the bloke’s tongue isn’t blocking his throat, hauls him carefully onto his side.

Ambulance coming, he says, pressing his mouth against his ear. My name’s Joe. Detective Sergeant Joe Romano. Help’s on the way. Stay calm. Breathe.

He kneels there, feels himself shaking, beginning to hyperventilate. He forces himself to breathe long and deep as he searches for the guy’s pulse.

He takes stock. The bloke in the floral shirt has disappeared, and no one else seems particularly concerned. A handful of men are still there, hanging back, like they’re watching a street performance but losing interest.

He gets a pulse. It’s fast, but steady. The guy looks up at him with his undamaged eye. Not frightened. Grateful?

Joe sinks further to the ground, sitting in the blood and dirt, feeling the wet of a puddle soak into his trousers. He hears the sound of sirens in the distance. Getting a hand under the guy’s head, he tries to ease it to a better angle so the blood in the eye socket can drain away. With his fingers he gently presses the guy’s cheek to try and stem the bleeding there.

Then he turns back to the men watching.

Where’s he gone?

No one says a word. The sirens get louder. He feels the blood on his fingers, cold and sticky in the air. He twists carefully, keeping the guy’s head still with one hand, and gets his phone out. Immediately it’s covered in blood, the touch screen useless. He rubs it on his jacket, selects the camera. Holding it up, he takes photo after photo, the auto flash lighting up the street, the pale, surprised faces of the men, who move off back into the pub.

Evil bastards, Joe shouts as the last of them disappears back inside. Not one of you gonna help?

The pub doors close. The sirens are loud now. Then they stop.

What’s your name? he asks.

Nothing.

Help’s coming. You’ll be OK. Help’s here. What’re you called?

He hears the vehicles spinning down through the gears as they round the corner.

The guy moves, tries to speak. His breathing is fluttery, and his one decent eye closes.

Ana, he whispers. Ana. Please. Ana.

2

Dewsbury and District Hospital. Joe sat in the waiting room wearing thick light-blue jogging trousers and a T-shirt that they’d given him. On the floor next to his feet was his bloodied Burton’s suit, rolled up in a plastic bag. He flicked through messages from Andy and Rita, who were both at the incoherent thumbs stage, still protesting his absence.

He’d made an initial statement at the scene, and they’d brought him here for a check-up. He’d told them he was fine, but without much conviction. The truth was he’d been glad to come. No point pretending you’re not in shock. A few minutes in a cubicle with an overworked junior doctor had settled him down. That plus three chocolate bars from the vending machine. He was ready for home. Yet here he was.

DS Romano?

A man walked towards him. Tall and heavy, thick mop of black hair, jeans and a brown leather jacket. DS Slater from the crime scene.

Yes, I was just—

We can send your statement over to Leeds for signing tomorrow, if you want. We’re wrapping up here.

OK. I was just wondering whether I might pop in and see the victim? Make sure he’s all right?

No probs. They’re keeping him in. Broken ribs, stitches to his face. He’ll have some scarring. And he’s doing a Mr. Invisible on us.

Really?

Won’t speak to us. He opened his notebook. Stefan’s his name. That’s the lot. Can’t get another word out of him. No surname. No address, no place of work, no friends or family to call . . . Nothing.

Illegal?

’Course he is. They’re bloody everywhere. Factories, nail parlors, food processing, takeaways. You name it. We got houses full of foreigners around here. It’s the United Nations! I’ll log it. Someone else can deal.

Got the bloke that did it?

That scumbag? The lad behind the bar ID’ed him straight off. Oh, and thanks for those photos. That’s a dozen witnesses, once we pull ’em all in. We should be open and shut on this one. Fellas like that don’t stay tight-lipped. This isn’t gangland, it’s scumland.

Joe got up.

What was it all about, then?

Bit of bother in a pub? What’s it always about? Something and nothing. He gestured over his shoulder. Johnny Foreigner picks a fight in a place like that, what does he think’s gonna happen? You know how many times these foreign workers get into shit like this?

His fault, then?

Slater shrugged.

When I was with him, Joe added, "he asked for someone called Ana. Please, Ana, he said. Did he mention that?"

Ana? You sure it he didn’t say Mamma? Wouldn’t be the first time someone cries for their mammy.

Joe couldn’t tell whether it was a joke.

I’ll just show my face. Sort the statement out tomorrow, then? I’m at Elland Road, Leeds.

Yeah, you said. How’s Rita doing over there?

Rita Scannon? You know her?

She’s Batley born and bred. Fifteen years she worked for us. Then she pissed off to Leeds, haven’t seen her since. Good copper. Tough bitch. Bit of a mouth on her.

I worked a murder case with her last year, as it happens.

Slater tucked his notebook in his jacket pocket, smirked like a dick.

I know. Lot of media interest, if memory serves.

It happens.

Unusual methods, I heard.

We got a conviction.

That’s the main thing, Sergeant! Rita’s still in our CID WhatsApp group. She’s out celebrating tonight, drunken photos, the lot! Can’t spell for shit. Anyway, you should be buying ’em all a drink. It was your case, right? Double murder?

Joe paused, tiring of Slater.

I’ll just say goodbye to Stefan.

He turned, began walking towards the ward.

By the way, DS Romano, just for the report, what were you doing outside the Feathers in Batley?

Joe stopped.

None of your business.

Stefan was alone in an A&E cubicle, sitting up in bed. One of his eyes was covered with a large white patch that came halfway down his cheek. On the other side of his face were two narrow transparent strips, a series of tiny butterfly clips running along them. The rest of his face was red and swollen, his neck covered in bandages.

Hello? Stefan?

He looked at Joe with his good eye, had difficulty focusing.

I’m Joe. Remember? I was there, earlier on?

Stefan was cautious, as if he didn’t recall. Then he nodded. It became more vigorous, before he winced, steadied his head, raised a huge hand.

I just popped in to make sure you’re OK, Joe said, shaking his hand.

Is good.

Joe smiled. I wouldn’t say that! Could’ve been worse, I suppose.

Stefan didn’t understand.

Is good, he said, his voice hoarse, what you do. Good man.

Joe nodded. Glad to have helped. He looked around. No drips, no machines. Not as bad as it might have been. They’ll be keeping you in. He sensed the man’s incomprehension. In here? You, here, yes? He pointed at the bed. Sleep here? Tonight, yes?

He felt like an idiot, talking to an adult like this. He sat on the edge of the bed.

Stefan? Who’s Ana? You’re gonna need someone to help you when you leave.

Not police! Stef said, his good eye wide, imploring. Please, Sir! Please!

Joe took a second, replayed the evening’s events: by the time he got out of the car in Batley, Stefan had already been glassed. Joe had identified himself, but Stefan would have been in shock as he dropped to the ground, his defenses going haywire. All he’d seen was someone coming to help him, someone in a suit and tie. Now the same person was in a T-shirt, talking to him after the coppers had left.

Who’s Ana? You need to ring somebody. Ring? Telephone?

No telephone. Not . . . He held up his hands.

You don’t have a phone?

No. He struggled to raise himself up in his bed, bringing his head close to Joe’s. Ana Dobrescu. Leeds. Ana. Please.

Leeds? Right, Joe said, standing. You have her telephone number?

He shook his head.

Like sister. Best. Best in the world. Best person.

Ana Dobrescu.

Yes, yes. Please. Ana! Everybody love Ana.

OK, I’ll do my best to find her.

Stef’s whole body tensed.

No—

Police? Joe asked. Got it. No police.

3

It was almost one in the morning when he got home. He parked up and considered the place: