Chapter 10
Nadeeka is on hold. Every thirty seconds Vivaldi’s Four -Seasons stops mid-note and Nadeeka opens her mouth to speak, only for a recorded announcement to remind her that the police non-emergency line is experiencing an unusually high number of calls, and that she is currently number eleven in the queue.
It feels strange to be using a proper phone.
Nadeeka never uses the landline; the only people who call this number are her parents and the occasional scammer offering a reduction on the Sky TV package she doesn’t have.
She hates not having her mobile. She hadn’t realized how much she uses it, but now she finds herself reaching for it every few minutes to check her messages or look something up, or to set a reminder.
You are currently number ten in the queue, the recorded message tells her, and the terrible music starts again.
Nadeeka sighs. She wishes she’d written DI Burton’s number down so she could have found out how much longer he’ll need to keep hold of her phone.
It hadn’t occurred to her to make a note of some of her contacts before dropping her phone in an evidence bag, and now she feels weirdly isolated.
She doesn’t even know Kath’s number; she had to call Scott, whose phone number seems to be imprinted on her brain.
You are currently number nine in the queue.
Of course, if she’d taken Jamie’s advice and backed up her phone regularly, everything would be in the cloud, wherever that is.
You can set it up to happen automatically, he’d told her a few weeks ago, after she’d dropped her phone in the bath and was panicking about what might have been lost. I will, Nadeeka had promised, but then a bag of uncooked rice and the airing cupboard had got her phone working again, and she never did get around to backing it up.
You are currently number ten in the queue.
‘What?’ Nadeeka takes the phone from her ear and glares at the disembodied voice. ‘I was number nine a second ago!’
But there’s no one there to care, and as Vivaldi kicks in again Nadeeka lets out a frustrated scream. She ends the call.
For a moment, she sits motionless at the kitchen table, fighting the urge to burst into tears. Everything feels so hard. Even the prospect of taking out the bins is exhausting.
After Scott had moved out, Nadeeka had become a one-woman machine, taking over all the jobs that had traditionally been his, and ticking off tasks with ruthless efficiency.
‘I don’t know how you do it all,’ Jamie had said.
They’d been a few dates in by that point and were video-calling late into the evening.
Nadeeka had been making the girls’ lunchboxes, her phone propped up on the windowsill.
She’d already done a load of washing, cleared away tea and tidied the living room while they’d been chatting.
‘I’m brilliant,’ Nadeeka had deadpanned.
Jamie had laughed. ‘You are!’
After he’d moved in, Nadeeka had continued to be a whirlwind. She did the grocery shopping and planned the meals; took charge of household admin and organized date nights.
‘Let me help,’ Jamie kept saying.
Nadeeka had insisted she was fine. ‘It’s all under control.’
Finally, Jamie had taken her face in his hands and locked his eyes on hers. ‘I know you can do it all,’ he’d said softly, ‘but you don’t have to. I want to help.’
‘So much of it is for Nish and Maya, though,’ Nadeeka had said. ‘Dentist’s appointments, and buying new shoes, and finding enough egg boxes for whatever craft project their class is doing next . . .’
‘Then we all muck in. You, me and the girls. We’re a team.’
So they had become one. And whereas Scott had always asked Nadeeka to tell him if she wanted him to do anything, then practically expected a medal for doing it, Jamie simply looked to see what needed doing and quietly did it.
Nadeeka picks up her car keys, her eyes filling with tears. Why is it that the one person she needs more than anyone else right now is the one person who can’t be here?
The front desk of the police station is so high that Nadeeka has to tip back her head to speak to the man behind it, who doesn’t have a name badge, only maroon epaulettes with C7449 embroidered on them.
C7449 looks for DI Burton’s extension number.
‘Do you know what department he’s in? He’s not listed under major crime, but there’s a lot of musical chairs goes on upstairs – I can’t keep up.
’ He pushes his glasses on to the top of his head and picks up the phone.
Nadeeka wonders if Vivaldi’s Four -Seasons plays for internal calls as well as for external ones.
‘Is there a DI Burton in the office today?’ C7449 is saying.
‘First name Colin.’ He looks at Nadeeka for confirmation and she nods.
There’s a long pause. ‘I’ve got a lady downstairs asking to speak to him.
Apparently, he’s taken her phone for forensics and said he’d have it back to her by yesterday.
’ Another long pause. ‘Well, could you come down? Because she’s got young children and she needs her phone back, and—’ He stops abruptly, then replaces the receiver.
‘And because it’s your job,’ he mutters darkly.
He grins at Nadeeka. ‘Someone’ll be down shortly. ’
Shortly turns out to be twenty minutes; someone a tall, slim woman in her late thirties who introduces herself as Detective Chief Inspector Lauren Caldwell, from major crime. She has -caramel-streaked brown hair, held back in a loose ponytail that swings as she leads Nadeeka into a side room.
‘I wanted to speak to DI Burton,’ Nadeeka says, as soon as the door closes. ‘My family liaison officer.’
‘Do you mean Burden, perhaps?’
‘Um . . . maybe?’ Nadeeka flushes. As someone who works in recruitment, she prides herself on getting people’s names right. ‘I might have misheard him. The first few hours were such a blur.’
‘Him?’ DCI Caldwell smiles. ‘Ah, then it’s not DS Burden, because DS Burden is a woman.
Don’t worry, I’ll find out who you need to speak to.
’ She swivels her chair to face the ancient-looking monitor on the side of the desk.
‘We’re supposedly all joined up nowadays, but sometimes the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing. Do you have a URN?’
‘A what?’ Nadeeka is close to tears again. She just wants to see Colin.
‘A Unique Reference Number. It’ll be four digits plus the date the incident was reported.’
The incident.
‘No, I don’t have a bloody reference number.’ Nadeeka fights to keep her voice under control. ‘What I have is a boyfriend in the mortuary, no clue who put him there, and a police force that doesn’t seem to give a shit about finding out.’
There’s a beat.
DCI Caldwell turns her full attention on Nadeeka. ‘I’m so sorry. Both for your loss and for the way you’re feeling now. What’s your boyfriend’s name?’
‘Jamie Golding.’ Tears prick at the backs of Nadeeka’s eyes.
The faintest of frowns crosses DCI Caldwell’s expression. ‘Jamie or James?’
‘Um . . . James, I suppose, although no one ever called him that.’
‘And he died on . . .’
‘Monday.’
DCI Caldwell glances at her watch before typing Monday’s date into the computer. Nadeeka tries to see the screen, but it’s angled away from her.
‘Where did this happen?’ The detective chief inspector is frowning more deeply now.
‘At home. Ten, Cedar Walk.’ Nadeeka has a bad feeling. Has the investigation into Jamie’s murder been closed already? DI Burton had admitted they had no leads, but he’d also promised that a team of detectives was working around the clock; that they were doing everything they could to—
‘Ms Prasanna . . .’ DCI Caldwell opens her mouth, but she can’t seem to form any words. Her gaze flicks to the screen and then to her notebook, before landing once again on Nadeeka.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Nadeeka grips the edge of the table. There’s something serious on that screen. Something DI Burton’s been keeping from her? ‘Are my daughters and I in danger?’ she whispers.
‘I can’t find a Jamie Golding on our system,’ DCI Caldwell says.
‘As I said, his full name was James.’
‘And there are no incidents recorded against your address.’
Nadeeka stares at her. ‘This is unbelievable.’ She has always supported the police, believing they do a tough job in even tougher circumstances, but this is outright incompetence. ‘I want to speak to Colin Burton right now.’
‘I’m afraid that’s going to be a problem. There is no Colin Burton working here.’
Nadeeka pushes back her chair and stands. ‘Which station does he work at, then?’
‘No, I . . .’ DCI Lauren Caldwell hesitates. ‘Whoever it was who said he was DI Burton . . . wasn’t a police officer.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Nadeeka’s pulse thrums in her ears. The room feels unnaturally hot and airless, and she puts a hand on the desk to steady herself.
‘All unexplained deaths across the force are included in a daily briefing, but I’ve checked Monday’s and there’s no mention of your partner’s name.’
‘What are you saying?’ It comes out in a whisper, as though the words themselves are as afraid as she is, and she sinks slowly back on to the plastic chair.
DCI Lauren Caldwell holds Nadeeka’s gaze. ‘I’m saying, there’s no record that this murder ever happened.’