Forgotten

The sun had already started its morning ascent, but its feeble rays failed to penetrate the thick blanket of cloud that hung low in the sky, casting a dreary pall over the city. Mrs. Smith shuffled down the street, her hunched figure resting over a walking stick, whilst her free hand clutched a bouquet of white Magnolias. It was still thirty minutes before the morning commuter traffic began, leaving the streets eerily quiet. The only sound that could be heard was the soft rustling of locked shutters along the row of off-licenses and chicken shops.

She had lived in Notting Hill for over 40 years, so she knew the area very well. However, she never felt settled on this route. She continued past Latimer Road, passed the row of shops and studio apartment her ex-husband lived in through the 80s, before taking a right under the overpass towards the station.

The brickwork under the overpass was plastered with brightly coloured, ragged graffiti. It was noticeably colder under here, with the wind whistling through the fabric of her clothes. Mrs. Smith gently pulled the collar of her beige overcoat together, moving slowly to ensure she didn’t damage the flowers.

The wind softened as she emerged from the other side of the overpass. The path opened onto a residential area, with several grey and rugged flat blocks lining the perimeter of the main road. Most of the windows still had the curtains drawn, boarded by a soft orange glow of light from within the flats. She took a sharp left past the next flat and crossed the road, where she stopped before a large white wall. Mrs. Smith stood in silence, her eyes moving methodically around the wall as she absorbed all the names. The white stone wall was erected five years ago, to commemorate the ninety people that died in a tragic building fire. At this time of year, hundreds of vibrant bouquets were stacked on top of one another, vying for attention against the weathered white stone.

Mrs. Smith remained silent, patiently studying the names one by one, before fixing on a spot near the bottom of the monument. A small tear started to develop under her left eye but was swiftly whisked away by the wind before it could settle on her tired grey skin. Her son had only just moved to the building, to be closer to her whilst she cared for her late husband.

After a few minutes, she approached the bottom of the list, when suddenly she noticed strange markings etched into the stone. As she edged closer, she realised the markings were in fact names that had been roughly scratched into the coarse wall. White stone fragments pooled on top of a strange pile of red splattered tulips. This had been done recently.

Another breeze rolled in, sending a chill down her spine. She shifted her glasses to help focus her gaze. Suddenly, she gasped and recoiled in horror, fumbling for her walking stick as she tried to regain balance. They weren’t tulips. They were hands.

By the time the police arrived, the thick grey clouds had developed a light grey hue from the beating sun above them. The area was cordoned off with police tape, which flapped vigorously in the wind, and a small white tent had been assembled next to the monument. A small crowd had gathered around the police tape, as commuters were pulled away from their morning routines. A few police officers stood by the tape to stop the crowd from getting too close, whilst other officers took statements. Every now and then a flash of white light would illuminate the tent, as a forensic team examined the scene.

The crowd gradually staggered apart as a black Volvo estate hummed through the street. DCI Robert Johnson stepped out of the car confidently. He had a thickset, muscular frame with a bald, cracked forehead that looked too small for his body. His plump nose sat above a neatly trimmed goatee that framed the bottom of a stern jaw. He wore a woollen jacket which hugged tightly around his solid frame, with his hands protruding from his sleeves like two oak chopping boards. He surveyed the surrounding area with his wide brown eyes and slid his notepad into his coat pocket. Despite his seniority, he always had his pad on hand.

He was greeted by a junior officer who lifted the police tape, as he slid underneath with a curt nod.

“DS Lucia Vazquez, good to see you here already. What are we dealing with?” Johnson said, in his deep, booming voice.

“Morning Sir, you’re going to want to see this,” Vazquez replied, motioning the junior officer back to the white tent.

Vazquez had a petite face but with strong dark features. She wore her hair in a tight black bun, which was always pristinely combed back. Although she was much shorter than Johnson, she had a formidable presence and relentless hunger for progressing through the male dominated police hierarchy. She was raised in the Caribbean until she was twelve, when her father was accidentally caught in the crossfire of a gang fight and was shot down in the middle of a street market. This kicked off her journey to join the force and formed the basis of her tough and unwavering attitude to police work.

Vazquez started to move toward the tent, “the body was found about an hour ago, it was called in by Mrs Beatrice Smith. She’s stood over there. The body is of an average height, stocky white male. No clear ID on the body yet.”

“Ok, how did Mrs. Smith discover the body?”

“She was laying flowers on the memorial earlier this morning and saw the hands sticking out of the pile of bouquets pressed up against the wall,” Vazquez pointed at the memorial. “She also said something about new names being chipped into the memorial’s white stone.”

“New names?” Johnson paused briefly, before carrying on towards the tent. “What did she mean by new names?”

Vazquez peeled back the side of the white forensic tent, “I don’t really know what to make of it.” Johnson slumped in the tent behind her. “But look for yourself. You see there. Just above the hands clasping the tulip.”

Johnson squatted down, with his hands resting on his knees. Four names had been chipped into the white stone with what looked like a chisel. Johnson studied the names for a while, before rising to pull out his notepad. His huge thick fingers grasped the pen as he carved the chiselled names in his notepad:

RICK STEWART

JAMES GRENT

CHRIS JASON

PAUL BRAWN

“What are you thinking sir?” Vazquez asked.

Johnson continued to stare at the names before the question eventually broke his train of thought. “Don’t know. But something tells me that this is not the last body we’ll find today.”