THE BEGINNING OF

WARNING:

This story contains descriptions of graphic violence and gore right from the outset. Reader discretion is advised

ONE

There was a thick crack as the bronze mass struck his head. The man went down onto the rug mewling with pain and shock. Again and again his killer bent forward bringing the metal down on to his skull. After a series of mulching cracks and thuds his head eventually broke open like a grotesque boiled egg, spilling its bloody contents out onto the floor.

The killer stood their panting with the exertion of what they’d done. Looking down at the smashed head they said, “That’s the last time you’ll laugh at me.”

TWO

DC Andrew Murray’s hard knocking on the door rang loud in the quiet street. He pushed the bell for the fourth time. Nothing.

“Guv, we’ve got a job on.” he shouted in his estuary accent. Sweeping the blond hair back away from his pale brow he looked around. He was on Shakespeare Road where his boss, Detective Inspector Russo, lived.

It was late summer now, and had been raining on and off. Black clouds were gathering overhead. Andrew thought he could smell the flintiness of the damp stone under his trainers.

The shutters were open on most of the sash windows of the Victorian three story buildings at this end of the street but no one stuck their head out to see who this man shouting was. Andrew found that odd for Brixton, where people normally weren’t shy to ask what your business was. It was a Wednesday morning. Could everyone be out at the same time he wondered? He decided to go round the back and see if he could get into Russo’s place that way. What was a bit of breaking and entering between workmates?

He got his mod out and asked it where the entrance to Shakespeare Road’s communal gardens was. The mod spoke back telling him it was on Spencer Road, the parallel street. Its voice was crackly as the speaker had been slowly dying.

Andrew mentally noted to take it to a remakery to get that part replaced.

He found the entrance to the communal gardens nestled in a gap between one end of the Victorian terraced buildings and a creeper covered block from the late twentieth century.

A wooden canopy covered with grape vines covered the space between the buildings and there was an open shed to one side with a few gardening shoes of different sizes and colours lined up on the floor. Wooden shelves were full of footwear of all kinds, from boots to sandals. A little sign read “Digging Poet’s.

Corner” and there was a colourful hand painted mural beside it of Shakespeare, Spencer and Milton wearing black polo necks and wellies while they planted and sowed. Andrew looked at the sparkling white Rens Classics on his feet and didn’t fancy paying a big cleaning fee when he returned them to the rental. He slipped them off and helped himself to a pair of open-backed blastic garden shoes from the floor. They were bright green, smelled rubbery and squeaked dully as he pulled them on over his feet.

He went into the gardens filling the space between the backs of the streets. It was scattered with fruit trees, raised beds and polytunnels. He smelled the smoky tang of burning charcoal and heard the thump of heavy bass mixed with the murmur of voices coming from behind one of the opaque growing shelters.

He came round the edge of it to see a growing party in full swing. There were a group of people of all sizes, colours and ages gathered around a BBQ that was grilling sliced aubergine and courgettes marinated in garlic and oregano by the smell of it. Adults clinked glasses of cloudy cider and dark beer. Kids were clutching glasses of fruit mashups in their hands or squealed as they ran around playing games. Barrels bulged with peaches and apricots taken from the garden’s trees.

A well-groomed man with dark skin and hair saw him approaching and came up to greet him. The man flashed a brilliant smile and Andrew felt himself blushing at his handsomeness.

“Hello there, you’re not from our co-op are you? Never mind. Come grab a drink and a bite. I’m Randal.” the beautiful man said in a deep voice as he shook his hand and started leading him to the booze table. Andrew drank in the perfume of the coconut oil Randal had on and felt his hand go warm in his grip helping him imagine how the rest of him might feel. Andrew smiled and reluctantly pulled his hand away.

“That sounds nice but I’m afraid I can't, I'm on duty.”

Andrew showed his warrant card.

“I’m Detective Constable Murray, I’m looking for Detective Inspector Russo, one of your neighbours, have you seen him?”

At the mention of Russo’s name Randal’s eyes narrowed like he’d just smelt something unpleasant.

“Oh, it’s him you want is it.” He said with a tone of distaste.

“You’ll probably find him with his lover down there.” There was the sour edge of sarcasm in his voice as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder down the garden corridor, and then went back to the party. Andrew started walking away and then heard Randal call, “Detective Constable Murray.” He turned around. “When you’re off duty come back and see me sometime. Number 67.” Randal said with a smile.

Andrew smiled back and became a little hot at the thought of making a house call to the tasty Randal later. For now he headed down through the gardens looking for Russo. He made his way past vines flush with purple grapes and a chicken coop that emanated clucking sounds and the smell of hay and shit. Eventually he found his guv.

Russo had his back to him emphasising his broad, squat shoulders, which very slightly stretched the perfectly tailored light tweed jacket he wore. Russo had on his typically flamboyant coloured cords, livid green in this case. Unusually he wasn’t wearing his hat for once. This revealed his bald dark brown pate surrounded by wiry, black hair. Andrew saw that directly in front of Russo was a brilliantly white goat. At first Andrew thought his guv was milking the animal. Then he saw his DI pick up a bottle of cider brandy and pour himself a good glass of it which he glugged down.

Russo was speaking voice but not to Andrew.

“Guv, who are you talking to?” He ventured tentatively as he came beside his DI. Russo turned his bleary face slowly towards Andrew. His eyes were bloodshot. “Murray.” He said his voice slightly slurred. “Haven’t you ever seen someone talking to a friend before? This is my friend Billie” He said in an accent that was as cut glass as the snifter he was drinking from. There was an acrid reek about him of strong booze.

“But it’s a goat, guv?” The animal’s raw odour filled his nostrils taking him back to the farming coop he’d grown up on in Kent.

“I see your observation skills are coming along young Murray, we’ll make a detective of you some day.” Andrew bridled at Russo’s patronising tone. “I’m already a detective.”

Russo started to pour himself more brandy with one hand while patting the goat with the other.

“A real detective I mean Murray. Not one of these pretend ones they’ve got these days. That’s why you came here from your hay bale wasn’t it? To become a proper copper in the big city?” Andrew didn’t like his DI’s condescending tone. Fine, he thought, Russo could wait to hear the news he wants.

“How comes you’re not at the party guv?” Andrew tilted his head back in the direction of where the sounds of music and merriment were coming from. Russo’s face curled into a grimace.

“You mean make small talk with the little people? I’ll pass thank you very much.” He looked down his nose as he said it. “I gave my contribution and came to be with my friend Billie here, you understand me don’t you Billie?”

He stroked the goat’s hair more and it chewed away on something like a teenager on gum. Now Andrew felt sorry for the rather lonely figure his DI cut. Russo, as if sensing a shift in energy turned his bleary eyes up to his constable.

“Anyway why are you here Murray?” He said annoyed.

Andrew braced himself to say it.

“There’s been a murder.”

Russo’s eyes immediately widened and he sat upright. “Are we up?” He asked, his voice now suddenly alert. Andrew nodded.

Russo’s eyebrows leapt up his forehead. “Well why didn’t you tell me that in the first place? Why didn’t you call me? You bloody idiot.” He lurched to his feet, leaning to the side as he did so. Murray grabbed Russo’s elbow to steady him, feeling the slight roughness of his tweed jacket as he did so.

“I tried calling guv, your mod was off, that’s why I came here to find you.”

Russo squared off to Andrew, his face like that of someone who’d been comfortably deep asleep and now was struggling to wake up. It looked like he was going to tell him off some more, but instead something seemed to click in his eyes.

“We better get on it. Come inside.” Russo said.

He patted the goat on its side. “See you later honey.” The animal gurned back at him, baring its lips to expose long teeth. Russo moved quickly towards the nearest house, leaving the brandy bottle and glass behind. Andrew scooped them up as he heard Russo say, “Where’s the murder?”. His DI tapped down aging concrete steps to the patioed back entrance of a basement flat and let himself in.

Andrew followed Russo to the door and then hesitated on the threshold never having been inside his guv’s lair before. “Come on man, out with it.” Russo’s voice called from the interior. Andrew stepped in to find a tidy, galley style kitchen with polished wooden surfaces and a big burgundy oven top dominating its centre.

There was the smell of onion and garlic emanating from under an orange Le Creuset casserole lid.

“It’s in Brixton, The Loughborough Estate.”

“Brilliant.” Russo’s voice came from deeper inside the flat. “That way we won’t have to bugger around with any other local detectives, it’s our patch.”

The kitchen led on to a small living room which had a minimalist, grey, fabric sofa and a green chesterfield armchair. There was a record player with a stack of vinyls beside it, which mainly appeared to be classical and jazz. Posters of old opera productions and American films covered the walls. On a side table there was one framed picture of Russo in his police uniform receiving the Presidential Commendation for Bravery award. It was the only photo in the room.

Andrew wondered what Russo was doing and then heard one, long, inhaling sniff. Moments later Russo emerged back into the living room rubbing his nose, there was still white powder on it. Andrew pointed at his own nose with a suggestive look.

Russo rubbed his forefinger under his nostrils and then inspected his digit. Seeing there was white powder on it he reached inside his jacket pocket, pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief and mopped it around his nostrils to clean them up. His pupils had dilated into little black dots.

“Right let’s get this show on the road.” Russo said sounding more alert.

“What about your soup guv?” Andrew said as he indicated back into the kitchen. Russo’s eyes darted to that room. “It’s not a soup you savage, it’s a sofrito, for what will be a delicious stew.” Russo walked over to the cooker turning the electric off, then spun on his heel to walk past his DC and out of the living room. Andrew followed him into a windowless hallway where lights came on, apparently triggered by their movement. Russo walked over to a coat stand with a number of gaudily coloured scarves and broad brimmed hats on it. He picked up a tan fedora, placed it on his head and then threw a bright yellow silk scarf around his neck. He touched a screen beside the door and said,

“House, I’m leaving for the day, power down.” The house system responded in a nasal American accent, “Yeah, yeah, I’m on it.” The lights went down in the hall as Russo opened the door letting the daylight in. He darted outside to where his bike was propped against a medlar tree in his front yard. It was a top-of-the line walnut number, beside which Andrew's rather less impressive bamboo bicycle looked flimsy in comparison. By the time Andrew got to his wheels Russo was already off and cycling down the street. He pedalled hard to catch up, the metal spokes singing as the street’s fruit trees slipped past him and he gained level with Russo. The sky was even darker overhead and sweat rushed across his skin. Andrew felt cool air kissing the damp socks on his feet and realised with horror. “I need to go back. I’ve left my shoes and taken your neighbours.”

Russo cast a side glance down at the blastic garden shoes on Andrew’s feet and laughed.

“Stealing from my neighbours Murray. Is that how you do it down in Kent? I’ll have you know that’s not acceptable police behaviour in Brixton.”

Andrew blushed. “I need to go back guv.”

“No time, Murray. No time.” Russo was grinning as he shouted the words. “It’s game on.”

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