Flesh and Blood Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  ALSO BY EMMA SALISBURY

  Copyright

  Author notes

  Acknowledgements

  Friday Night

  Chapter One

  Saturday

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Sunday

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Monday

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Tuesday - Rest Day

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Wednesday

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thursday

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Friday

  Chapter Seventeen

  Saturday

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sunday

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Monday

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Two Weeks Later

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  About The Author

  Truth Lies Waiting Chapter 1

  Emma Salisbury

  FLESH

  AND

  BLOOD

  ALSO BY EMMA SALISBURY

  THE DS COUPLAND DETECTIVE SERIES:

  FRAGILE CORD (Book One)

  A PLACE OF SAFETY (Book Two)

  ONE BAD TURN (Book Three)

  ABSENT (Book Four)

  THE DAVY JOHNSON EDINBURGH GANGLAND SERIES

  TRUTH LIES WAITING (Book One)

  THE SILENCE BEFORE THE SCREAM (Book Two)

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2019 Emma Salisbury

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Although real place names and agencies are referred to in this book the storyline relating to them is completely fictitious.

  Cover design by Author Design Studio

  Author notes

  The Care Quality Commission is the independent regulator of health and social care in England. At the time of writing (March 2019) 935 homes registered with it were rated as good and 57 were rated as outstanding, 328 required improvements and 87 were rated as inadequate.

  Some heavy lifting reading was required to get a better understanding of the issues facing the sector: Winterbourne View – A Time For Change (2014), a report by the Transforming Care and Commissioning Steering Group. At the time of the Winterbourne View scandal there were 3400 vulnerable people in specialist hospitals. Currently 2300 vulnerable people remain in them.

  Source: NHS Digital April 2019

  Acknowledgements

  Although as a writer of fiction I tend to make things up as I go along, there are times when facts are required. The websites and reports referred to in my Author notes were particularly helpful, and I found myself returning to a particular book when writing the post mortem scene: Sue Black, All That Remains,(London: Penguin Random House, 2018). Even though it tackled a difficult subject matter, it was so fascinating I found it hard to put down.

  I am enormously indebted to my early readers, in particular Lynn Osborne, whose feedback is always invaluable. Thank you for being so generous with your time.

  As ever, thank you to my family and friends for putting up with my overactive imagination, which has been known to seep into reality at the most inopportune times. And, thanks, of course, to Stephen.

  Friday Night

  Chapter One

  He was stark bollock naked. Like the day he was born. And cold. The wind whipped over him as he bolted down the street like a streaker at a cup final. The reaction from the folk he passed depended on whether drink had been taken; a cheer or whooping noise came from those half cut, while the sober ones tutted and looked away. A group of teenagers followed him, Forrest Gump style, filming and sharing his antics online. Startled by the sound of tyres screeching and car horns blaring as he ran across the road, he sought shelter in an off licence. The customers inside pointed and stared while Shafiq Ahmed, the off licence owner, phoned the police. ‘A car is on its way,’ Mr Ahmed said to no one in particular as he draped a blanket over the young man who had hunkered down in front of the counter. The teenagers that had followed him stood in the shop doorway holding their phones aloft until Mr Ahmed picked up a sweeping brush and chased them away.

  Custody Suite, Salford Precinct Station

  The custody suite rang out with the sound of screaming as the young man was given a pair of threadbare jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt which he refused to put on, tightening the grip on Mr Ahmed’s blanket as though suddenly overcome with modesty. A doctor had been summoned who informed the custody sergeant that it was unlikely the young man shivering and babbling in front of him was high on drugs or off his face on booze as they’d first thought, but was on some sort of spectrum; the severity was hard to tell at this stage given the distress he was in and the unfamiliar surroundings. A sandwich and a mild sedative were prescribed. It was agreed that he’d be kept in the cells until the PCs who’d brought him in found out his name, together with an address they could deliver him back to.

  His shouts could be heard from behind his cell door, a series of words, albeit hard to make out. Each cell had CCTV in it and they’d shown him how to use the bright red panic strip but to be safe it was agreed to place him on fifteen minute obs. Friday nights were the worst of the week but a few well-chosen words from the custody sergeant encouraged the noisy ones to keep the volume down. He made his way over to the young man’s cell and opened the viewing hatch in the door. ‘Keep the racket down, mate,’ he said in the voice he normally saved for when he got home. ‘You’re disturbing my other guests.’ The young man fell quiet almost immediately, began tracing shapes on the wall with his finger instead.

  The custody sergeant closed the hatch and turned to the A4 sized whiteboard mounted next to the cell door. He’d written ‘Indecent exposure’ on the board when its occupant had first been brought in; he now removed his marker pen from his top pocket and added ‘Query special needs.’ He glanced down the corridor at the other closed cell doors and the whiteboards beside them. Two assaults, one shoplifter, an attempted murder, one breach of bail conditions and several no shows at court, rounded up and awaiting to appear before the magistrate on Monday morning. He moved to the next cell and clicked down the viewing hatch; might as well since he was down here. The occupant was a young lad he’d not come across before, arrested for breach of the peace, though that covered a multitude of sins. It did no harm to offer a bit of reassurance, their bravado often slipped when they were separated from their mates. ‘You alright son?’ he called into the void.

  ‘I fucked your mum,’ the lad called out when their eyes met; getting to his feet and dropping his joggers around his ankles, he turned his back on the door and bent over, hands parting his bony backside. ‘Right up the bum.’ Sighing, the officer clicked up the hatch and pulled out his pen, scribbling the word ‘Gobshite,’ on the board before returning to his desk.

  *

  It should have been the night shift’s shout but the duty sergeant had gone home sick with Tonsillitis and DCI Mallender had a seminar in Bristol to attend the next morning. ‘I need someone experienced on this from the get-go,’ he’d said when he’d made the call, but they both knew he was offering him a lifeli
ne. With a Professional Standards hearing looming he needed all the brownie points he could get.

  Detective Sergeant Kevin Coupland pocketed his mobile before handing the smelly bundle he’d been cradling back to his daughter. ‘Saved by the bell,’ he grimaced before planting a kiss on Amy’s forehead. ‘Anyway, I never was any good with the nappy end.’

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ his wife Lynn muttered as she walked into the front room carrying a tray. The floor was strewn with baby paraphernalia and a changing mat with a contraption over it that resembled a high school gym. She stepped carefully over several teddy bears and a clown that shouldn’t go anywhere near a small child in Coupland’s view, placed a teapot and a packet of biscuits on a coffee table that had been relegated to the corner of the room. ‘You’ve not long finished your shift, why have you been called back in?’

  Coupland pushed himself off the sofa and sighed. ‘There’s a fire at a care home in Pendlebury, a bad one by the sound of it, one fatality already reported so far.’

  Lynn nodded. She’d stayed late at the hospital where she worked enough times to know you didn’t walk away easily when your shift ended, and if you were called back in afterwards there was a damn good reason.

  ‘Be careful, Kev,’ she said, moving towards him to plant a kiss on his cheek.

  ‘Aren’t I always?’ he shot back, ignoring the look his wife and daughter exchanged. ‘With any luck I’ll be back in time to give this one his morning bottle. Mind you if Turnbull’s the crime scene manager it’s more likely the next drink I give this little fella will be his first pint.’

  *

  The blaze could be seen for a good five minutes before Coupland arrived at Cedar Falls Residential Home. The air on the approach was thick, cloying. The immediate area had been cordoned off with cones and crime scene tape. Three fire crews were in attendance, their vehicles forming a line in front of the main building. Three more had been despatched. Coupland parked as close as he could, beside vehicles belonging to exhibits officers and fire service personnel. Stepping round to the boot of his car he retrieved a Smurf suit and overshoes, removing his jacket before slipping it on. He held his ID badge up for the uniformed constable standing beside the CSI van to see.

  Coupland stepped inside the cordon, taking time to survey the scene. For him this time was crucial. To get the lie of the land, a feel for what had gone before. Even though emergency services were crawling all over the place, these were vital minutes that helped him process what he was seeing. A crowd had gathered by the cordon but they weren’t there to gawp. They knew the residents of old, knew full well that the emergency services would need help shepherding them to safety. A human chain formed as figures emerged from the burning building, each resident patted and handed to the next person like a human pass the parcel. First stop the paramedics who allowed the walking wounded to be taken into the nearby sports centre where they were wrapped in blankets and given sweet tea. The kindness was met with bewildered faces, too sleepy or too medicated to understand what was going on. ‘Poor little mite,’ a young woman whispered to her friend as a man twice her age shuffled past.

  Coupland moved behind a large white screen that had been erected. Behind it lay the body of a woman not fortunate enough to escape the fire. Her face was blackened with soot; scorched clothing looked as though it had been glued to her skin. ‘Smoke inhalation,’ the emergency medic blue lighted from Salford Royal told him. Coupland stared up at the flames engulfing the care home’s main building, certain the coroner’s office would be claiming more than this young woman by the time morning came. The sound of sirens filled the air as the second batch of fire appliances arrived. The sight of them did little to lift Coupland’s mood, he reckoned their job had turned to one of recovery, rather than rescue.

  Amid a series of frantic shouts a fireman stumbled from the building carrying a body. A rookie by his demeanour, the sight of him caused an older colleague to run in his direction, helping him to lay the casualty behind the screen. Coupland stepped back to give them room, watching as the rookie shook his head before swiping a hand across his face. The older colleague patted his back, said something out of Coupland’s earshot, though he didn’t need to hear what was said to know this was the lad’s first fatality. A rite of passage that he’d never forget. Something to haunt him on dark nights, replaying over and over in his head until he learned to shut it out. Coupland’s jaw clenched. He was still working on that bit. He looked down at the body at the young man’s feet and his breath quickened. ‘Over here!’ he shouted to the medic who’d returned to the ambulance, his services so far redundant. The medic grabbed his bag and jogged back to the screen. ‘I didn’t imagine it, did I?’ Coupland demanded. The medic stared for a moment or two before shaking his head. He dropped to his knees to double check. There, beneath the floodlights and the melting remains of a person burnt beyond repair, the chest rose and fell.

  *

  ‘You did a good job, son,’ Coupland said as the rookie’s mouth fell open. They stood back to make room for the paramedics who swooped in now there was a live one. Morphine administered, the victim was lifted onto a stretcher and wheeled to the waiting ambulance, doors open ready to swallow them whole. Coupland patted the rookie’s shoulder like a master rewarding an obedient dog. Now wasn’t the time to shatter his bubble, tell him that with burns like that it was unlikely the victim would survive the journey to A&E, let alone the night. He caught the eye of the older man beside him and on this they were agreed: let the world be a hopeful place for the new kid on the block, if only for a short while.

  *

  DCI Mallender looked grateful when Coupland made his way over to him. His blond hair blended into the hood of his white CSI oversuit, his slim build making the regulation protective gear look classy. He’d been talking to DC Turnbull who’d been nominated Crime Scene Manager, pointing out the cordoned off area, making his hands go wide, a look of frustration across his face. Turnbull was already shaking his head. ‘Pointless, Boss, the fire crews need access, the whole place will be contaminated by now anyway.’

  Coupland stepped between them. ‘Get uniforms to take over the human chain, and get the name and contact details of everyone in the crowd, and while you’re at it take a photo of the soles of their shoes.’

  Turnbull’s eyes widened, ‘Seriously?’

  In contrast, Coupland narrowed his eyes. ‘Which bit of that sounds like a joke to you?’ Turnbull was a plodder, but he didn’t need telling twice. He clamped his clipboard under his arm as he made his way over to a group of uniforms standing nearby. Coupland cocked a smile in the DCI’s direction. ‘Managing Turnbull means telling him explicitly what you want him to do. Leave no room for interpretation. And the fewer syllables the better.’ They watched as Turnbull herded a group of uniforms who’d been kicking their heels beside a police van to where the residents were being handed from one onlooker to the next. Two PCs were given the task of collecting everyone’s details; the others took up positions by the cordon to receive the remaining residents, though there weren’t as many being brought out as when Coupland first arrived. The flames were abating, though it would be several hours before they’d be allowed inside the building, assuming it was declared safe. ‘Professor Benson is on his way, although I suspect the bulk of his job tonight will be overseeing the removal of bodies.’

  Coupland couldn’t disagree.

  ‘I want you to sit on the fire chief’s coat tails,’ Mallender instructed. ‘We need his report as soon as possible.’

  ‘I don’t need a report to tell me it’s bloody arson,’ Coupland muttered. ‘The whole place has gone up like a tinder box.’

  ‘No, but you need to know the paraphernalia used,’ Mallender reminded him. ‘Might give us somewhere to start.’

  Coupland nodded, his gaze sweeping over the crowd closest to the cordon, ‘Is the owner here?’

  Mallender shook his head. ‘He’s been taken to hospital, suffered burns to his hands helping to get some of th
e residents out.’

  ‘Anyone spoken to him yet?’ His question was met with another shake of the head.

  *

  Coupland surveyed onlookers as they gave their details to the uniformed officers working their way through the crowd. Middle-aged mostly, locals who’d likely remember when Cedar Falls had been a clothing factory, before it was converted into flats during the property boom then sold on to the current owner who’d remodelled it into a care home during the social care crisis. ‘These places are like gold dust, aren’t they?’ he said to the DCI; not that he had relatives to consider residential care for, elderly or otherwise, unless you counted an incontinent father-in-law whose only pleasure was listening to the cricket on the radio. Lynn would have had him come and live with them if she hadn’t got sick, that and the fact Sonny Jim had come along and taken up the spare room.

  The crowd was beginning to disperse. Two young men caught Coupland’s eye. Black jogging bottoms, designer anoraks with hoods pulled up as they surveyed the action. He moved towards a CSI who was videoing the incident. ‘Make sure you get a shot of rent-a-crowd before they bugger off,’ he instructed, pointing in their direction. He headed towards the Watch Manager, a man close to fifty but with the build of someone ten years his junior. Coupland had attended several shouts with him over the years. ‘’Fraid you’re lumbered with me, Mack,’ he said in greeting, but the Watch Manager’s reply was less convivial.

  He held up his hand palm outwards. ‘Whatever it is can wait,’ he ordered, ‘The fire has damaged the casing round the gas meter. I need you to evacuate the neighbouring homes NOW.’

  Coupland scanned the crowds until he located Turnbull. The DC was using his initiative, getting the uniforms who’d finished shepherding the rescued residents into the gym to disperse the crowd back to their homes. Coupland nodded an acknowledgment. ‘There’s a bloody gas leak, we need to evacuate the area and push back the cordon. I’ll get onto the emergency team at the council, get them to open up the primary school at the bottom of the road.’