by Chris Simms
‘I suppose every refuge is similarly restricted?’
‘They are.’
‘That’s a lot of people with nowhere to sleep at night.’
‘Sadly, yes. A vast returning to the streets.’ He sighed. ‘At seven o’clock in the morning, the lights go on and the reverse takes place. Breakfast until eight thirty and then everyone heads off for the day.’
It sounded to Jon like a military operation.
‘We also ask those who stay here to help with the washing up and cleaning. Most are happy to do so.’
‘Impressive. How come they don’t just use their own bedding?’
‘No one is permitted to take personal possessions beyond this point. It’s the only way we can ensure the hall remains free of drugs, alcohol and weapons. It has to be a safe area and everyone in the building has to know it’s safe. So, when people arrive, they place all their things in a bin liner, which is labelled and sealed before being locked away. And they must sign a form declaring they have nothing else on their person. Those are the rules.’
‘And it works?’
‘For the most part, yes. Everyone knows if you ever break them, you won’t be allowed back.’
‘These forms. They serve as a record of who was here each night?’
‘I suppose they do.’
‘I’m trying to ascertain the whereabouts of someone called Greg. He’s—’
‘Greg was here. He hadn’t been in for a while. It was nice to see he was OK.’
‘This is Greg who used to serve in the army? About sixty or so, wears a flat cap?’
‘Yes, absolutely. He’s never any bother.’
Jon stepped towards the front doors for a closer look. He had to be certain Greg really had been here all night. ‘What’s stopping someone leaving once you’ve locked-down?’
‘Nothing. But they wouldn’t be permitted back in. If they leave, they take their bag with them and they don’t get to come back. We have to operate a strict curfew.’
‘Could someone leave without being noticed?’
He shook his head. ‘We have three staff on each night. Once things have quietened down, they are based in there.’ He gestured to the side office with its sliding window.
Jon gauged the route from the main hall to where he was standing. If someone was crawling, they could sneak past the office, no problem. ‘Is this door locked at night?’
‘It’s on a buzzer. We have a camera and intercom to see who is outside ... oh, you mean sneak out?’
‘Either.’
‘No, I can’t see that happening. A beeper sounds whenever this door is opened. You heard it when we came in.’
Jon nodded. ‘Rear fire escape?’
‘If that’s opened, a proper alarm sounds.’
‘How about windows?
‘What’s this about, if I may ask?’
‘I need to be certain everyone booked in here last night remained on the premises until morning.’
‘I see. The windows are on a latch system. You couldn’t climb out of one without unscrewing the mechanism. And you’d need a stepladder and tools to do that.’
‘Were you working last night?’
‘I was.’
‘And nothing unusual happened?’
‘No. Nothing.’
‘OK, thanks. I might need to send a colleague or two to check the building and your CCTV, if that’s alright.’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘And last thing. Could I take a quick look at the form Greg signed?’
‘One moment.’ He returned with a sheet of paper in his hand. Jon checked the bottom. The name Greg Scott was written alongside yesterday’s date. Win! Now I can supply a surname to Iona. Get her to thoroughly check this person out. He used his phone’s camera to take a snap. ‘Thanks. That’s a great help. And I’d appreciate it if you don’t mention I was ever here.’
DCI Pinner moved towards the Audi as Farnham climbed out. ‘Edmund.’
‘Trevor.’
Briefly, they shook hands.
‘Are you OK?’ Pinner couldn’t recall ever seeing his friend looking so strained.
‘Shitting myself, if you want to know the truth. I really am.’ He looked fearfully at the nondescript building. ‘Christ. Is ... do you think it’s ...’
Edmund placed a hand on his arm. ‘I think you need to assume it is.’
Farnham blinked a couple of times. ‘Why? Have you been in already?’
‘No, I haven’t.’ He glanced back to the door. The man in white was still holding it open. ‘Shall we?’
Farnham nodded. ‘OK.’ He breathed deeply. ‘That big detective showed up last night – the one who’s meant to be finding Olivia.’
‘Spicer?’
He nodded. ‘I was at the farewell dinner for the delegation over from America. Wasn’t good to have him lurking outside. Tell him my daughter knows no one called Anura.’
‘I will.’
‘Can’t say I warm to the man, Trevor.’
‘He has his own way of doing things.’
‘You’re happy with him working under you? Not sure if I would be.’
Trevor bowed his head. ‘Understood.’
‘Come on, then.’
Once they’d put plastic overshoes on, the mortician keyed in the entry code for the inner door. A stark corridor lay beyond, white walls and a shiny floor. ‘If you wait in there,’ he pointed to the right-hand door, ‘I’ll just be a minute or two.’
He set off for the double doors at the other end of the corridor, soles of his white boots squeaking with each step.
Pinner led his friend into a small room. The far wall had a window at its centre. The room it looked through to was in darkness. ‘It’s a viewing, only, Edmund. With circumstances as they are, we have to consider forensics. Sorry.’
Farnham was staring at his reflection in the glass. ‘Forensics, Jesus Christ. I don’t think it’s her. She can’t have been ... no. What if I can’t recognise her, Trevor? I’m not sure I can do this. I mean, if her face is—’
‘There’s no damage to her face, Edmund. It’s OK.’
The window transformed as strip lights flickered to life in the room beyond. The mortician backed in through a swing door, pulling a gurney draped in a sheet. He eased it to a halt the other side of the glass and, without looking at the window, turned the top of the sheet back and retreated a step.
Liv’s profile was as Pinner remembered. The same button nose and tiny ear. He’d seen that face so many times. Birthday parties, cinema trips, walks in the Lake District. Beside him, Farnham’s breathing had sped up. He turned to see tears coursing down his friend’s face.
The canteen area of the Booth Centre was almost empty. Jon noticed the serving hatch doors were shut. To his relief, Greg sat on the far side of the room, a mug in one hand, his head bowed over a newspaper.
Jon waited until he was a table away before announcing his presence. ‘Greg.’
The other man looked up and immediately grinned. ‘There you are! What the hell happened to you?’
Jon sat down. Greg was appraising him with an expression of concern and curiosity. ‘I couldn’t find you,’ Jon said. ‘Looked everywhere.’
‘I left word with a few people. And there was a note in the entrance – I stuck it to the wall.’
‘Maybe the wind blew it off? I didn’t see any note.’
‘So what did you do in the end?’
‘Slept in that doorway, of course. I didn’t know if you might turn up.’
Greg blushed slightly. ‘I had to get myself to St Joseph’s. I’m really sorry we missed each other.’
‘Why?’ He kept his eyes on Greg, searching for anything that might suggest deceit.
Greg’s look of embarrassment deepened. ‘Once you’d gone, I thought I might get myself in trouble. St Joseph’s was the best place for me to be.’
Jon knew you had to be an exceptionally good actor to blush like that on demand. ‘I don’t get you.’
<
br /> ‘When you told me about Wayne dying, it was ... the old switch clicked. In my head. I wanted a taste of something strong. I haven’t drunk in almost three years, but I wanted to last night. I really wanted to.’ He stared down at the paper for a moment. ‘He was a good kid, Wayne. I liked him a lot.’
Jon recalled the tears that had started streaming down Greg’s cheeks when he’d told him Wayne was dead. Those had looked real enough, too. ‘What is St Joseph’s?’
‘A place where nothing can tempt you. A lot of folk won’t go there. They say it’s more like a prison.’
‘You slept there?’
He nodded. ‘Aye. And I’ll probably go back again tonight.’ He lifted his hand. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve been like this.’
‘So, booze was your thing?’ Jon asked, observing the tremors running through Greg’s fingers.
‘Booze was my thing,’ he repeated. ‘It’s what I chose. No one wakes up in the morning and says, I reckon I’ll be an alky. It comes down to choices, Jon. Ultimately, it’s choices. I don’t blame anyone but me for my life. I made those choices.’
Jon shifted his gaze to the other man’s eyes. ‘You got family, Greg? I never asked.’
‘Yeah, there’s a boy back home. But he’s got his own life. I’m not dragging him down into my shit. Best we stay apart.’
‘How old is he?’
Greg’s smile was sad. ‘Twenty-six.’
More or less Wayne’s age, Jon thought. Do I need to worry about you, Greg? Are you scouring the city at night, luring people to places where the Dark Angel can make a kill? ‘More happened last night. The girl we were trying to find is dead.’
Greg’s hand, that had been holding the paper, contracted into a fist. Paper scrunched and then tore. ‘For fuck’s sake!’
Jon looked about. All the tables surrounding them were empty. ‘You OK, Greg?’
His head nodded. ‘The streets. They cost so many bloody lives. How did she die?’
‘It looks like she fell from the top of a building.’
He shoved the crumpled paper away from him. ‘So the Dark Angel is killing women now? And the baby, did he ...?’
‘There was no sign of the baby. We think he may have taken it.’
Greg shook his head. ‘He took her baby? Jesus Christ, why?’
‘We don’t know. But I don’t think we have much time. Which means I can’t afford to not be able to find you. So, after this, we’re going to a phone shop. I’ll get you a handset, OK? Then I’ll put my number—’
‘I’ve got a phone.’
Jon frowned. ‘You have?’
‘I never use it.’ His hand burrowed into his coat and re-emerged clutching an ancient Nokia. ‘I doubt if it’s even got any charge.’ He pressed the power button. ‘Oh, looks like I’m wrong.’
Jon sat back. ‘Greg, I can’t believe you’ve got a phone. Why the hell didn’t you say?’
‘Did you ever ask?’
‘No, but I could have just rung you last night – actually, no I couldn’t. You don’t even have it turned on!’
‘No. Hate the little bastard, if I’m honest.’ He saw something on the display and a sadness filled his eyes. ‘Last person to ring me was Wayne. See?’ He turned the phone round.
Jon squinted at a screen with so many scratches, he could hardly make out the number beneath. ‘Can I?’ He held out his hand.
Greg plonked the device in his palm.
‘Wayne had a phone,’ Jon murmured, tilting it so he could read what was on the screen. He couldn’t recall anything about a phone being among Wayne’s personal possessions. In fact, he wasn’t sure if a phone featured in any of the victims’ lists. Had Olivia Farnham owned one? Surely she must have. He took his own device out, selected the camera function and took a picture of Greg’s screen. The list of digits making up Wayne’s phone number was just legible. ‘While I’m at it, what’s your number, Greg? I’ll put it in mine now.’
‘No idea. It’s in there under my name.’ He took the Nokia off Jon and pressed a few buttons. ‘Here you go.’
Even better, thought Jon. Now I’ve got your surname and phone number. Once he’d taken a snap, Jon got to his feet. ‘I need to head back, Greg. But I shouldn’t be long. Get some more charge on that museum-piece, can you? I’ll ring you in a bit.’
‘What are you going to do in such a hurry?’
‘Get hold of some records.’
Chapter 34
Jon and Iona found Pinner striding back and forth in his office. ‘Leave the door open, DCI Weir’s on his way,’ he said, waving them to the meeting table in the corner. ‘Before we start, I have a message from the mayor: Olivia had no friend called Anura.’
Jon blinked. Bit late now.
‘And I don’t think your method of asking him was appreciated,’ Pinner added.
‘Tell him I’m sorry if my attempts at finding his daughter caused him any inconven—’
‘Sir,’ Iona cut in. ‘We’ve made some progress with the phones.’
Pinner continued glaring at Jon for a moment longer. ‘Go on.’
‘Jon?’ Iona asked.
‘I found my contact earlier this morning, having lost track of his whereabouts last night.’
‘This is the one who used to serve in the army?’ Weir demanded, slipping through the door.
‘That’s right,’ Jon replied taking a seat. He’d already decided to hold back with his suspicions about Greg – at least until Iona’s enquiries were complete. ‘I was arranging for him—’
‘Where was he?’ Weir interrupted.
‘A church-run refuge.’ He didn’t bother adding that Kieran and another colleague were en route to the location to check the building’s windows and CCTV. ‘I was arranging to get Greg – my contact – a phone so we don’t lose touch again. Turns out he has one, but rarely uses it. In fact, he tends not to even have it turned on. But he also let me know that the last person who called him was Wayne Newton; the sixth ex-soldier to have recently died.’
Pinner lifted a finger. ‘The empty pub? He was found by the fire escape of ...?’
‘The Star and Garter,’ Jon replied. ‘That’s the one.’ He turned to Iona, who already had her laptop open.
‘I put Wayne’s number into the phone system. It’s registered with Wiffle on a monthly contract.’
‘How fast are they with access requests?’ Pinner asked.
‘Well, it varies. Obviously, I stressed the urgency—’
‘Let me have those details, DC Khan,’ Pinner said. ‘I’ll make sure we get them.’
‘We also ran a check on the personal item inventories of all six ex-servicemen to have recently died,’ Jon announced. ‘With all of them homeless, none had much by way of possessions. Even so, there wasn’t a mobile phone found with any of them. Not one.’ He checked both senior officers were listening. ‘But the family of Luke McClennan had already told us he used to regularly check in with them. In fact, that’s how they first suspected something was wrong – when his phone calls stopped. They’ve now given us his number.’ He turned to Iona once again.
‘I’ve contacted the network and—’
‘Forward the details to me,’ Pinner said quietly.
‘Will do,’ Iona replied. ‘Thanks, sir.’
‘So,’ Weir said, eyes darting to Jon. ‘You’re thinking some of them might have owned a phone?’
‘I think,’ Jon replied, ‘that it’s worth asking the families or anyone they knew, that question.’
Iona looked at DCI Pinner. ‘Obviously, if Olivia Farnham had a phone, it will be a great help if we can access her records, too.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll see if Ed can help us with that. Anything else?’
Jon shook his head.
‘Right,’ Weir said, pointing to the door. ‘See where the phone angle takes you. And Jon? If it’s a dead-end, you get straight back out there and hook up with that contact of yours again. Keep doing the rounds.’
Gavin paused on hi
s way out the door. He knew the question wasn’t necessary, but he asked it anyway. ‘Are you sure you’ll be OK?’
Miriam’s head was bowed, all her attention focused on the little baby on her lap.
He tried again. ‘Miriam? You’ll be OK?’
She raised the feeding bottle and examined the amount of milk inside. ‘That’s almost an ounce of milk gone. She’s starting to do a bit better. Do you think she’s starting to do a bit better?’
Gavin wasn’t sure: how could a baby drink so little? The tiny thing had been lying there for what seemed ages. And in all that time, she’d managed about a thimble of milk. ‘Seems to be.’
Miriam nodded. ‘Yes, I think so, too. Is it warm enough in here? Do you want to turn up the fire a little more?’
The place is already like oven, Gavin thought. ‘No need for that, Miriam. I shouldn’t be long.’ He started down the corridor. ‘Call me if you think of anything else!’
Miriam’s voice drifted through the doorway. ‘You put nappies on the list?’
‘I did.’
‘When will you be back?’
‘Soon. A few hours.’
OK. If you speak to the mummy, tell her there’s no rush, will you?’
He picked his way through the junk that clogged his path. ‘Will do.’
‘Tell her I’m happy to look after Sky for as long as she needs me to!’
He closed the door of her flat, thankful to be free of its cloying atmosphere. Time, he thought, to carry out a risk assessment. Work out if the police are any closer to finding me.
Jon stretched his arms to the ceiling. Almost two hours of making phone calls and not a thing. Tiredness was catching up on him.
Iona replaced her phone receiver. ‘Interesting.’
She’d been on the phone to her contact at the Ministry of Defence for almost quarter of an hour. Jon raised his eyebrows in question.
‘Greg Scott,’ she announced. ‘Scots Guards. Joined in 1973, left six years later.’
‘Where after that?’ Jon asked, thinking maybe the Parachute Regiment.
