by Vicky Newham
‘Then some arsehole took him out, and all that struggling and determination were for nothing.’ Alexej thumped his fist on the desk, spilling tea from his mug. ‘You know what gets me? I bet the one thing that helped him to stay alive was probably the desire to see his daughter grow up, to be a part of her life.’ His voice faltered. ‘And now . . . now he won’t and she’s going to grow up without her dad.’
His words hung in the air, like a spectre.
All murders were awful, but there was something even more tragic about someone having their life taken from them just as they’d turned it round.
Shen’s voice snapped us back to the room. ‘Boss, Dan’s just rung. He’s got Kelly Turner’s address. The mum was pissed, and he couldn’t get any sense out of her, but he managed to spot her address book. Kelly’s got a four-year-old daughter, Abbie, and they live in Romford.’ She passed me the message slip.
‘I bloody well hope she got her kid looked after while she was over at the soup shop.’ Alexej’s voice was strident.
All eyes were on me as I read out the address. ‘Flat 5, 257 Bridge Road, Romford. We can’t take any risks. We’ll need back-up to meet us at her place with an ambulance, and we’ll need an enforcer in case no-one answers the door.’
It had been three days.
If Abbie wasn’t already dead, she’d be a whisker away from it.
Maya, midday
Minutes later, I was in the car, scooting from Limehouse towards Romford, blue lights and siren on.
‘There’s no mention of Kelly living with anyone or having a partner.’ Alexej was paraphrasing what we’d learnt about Kelly through the in-car radio.
When I arrived, Dan was standing by. Two officers from armed response were at the door of the flat, pressing the buzzer. The entrance was beside a café.
‘No response, Ma’am,’ said one of the armed officers. ‘There’s either no-one in or they’re not answering.’
‘Right. Ram the door,’ I said. ‘It’s got a feeble Yale lock, so it won’t take much.’
It took one ram with the enforcer and the latch gave way. Dan and I followed ARU in, clambering up the stairs into the cold flat. No cooking smells greeted us, and no recent heat. The stairs took us onto a bare landing with wood-chip magnolia walls. We split up and I went into the lounge at the front of the building. ‘Nothing in here,’ I yelled.
‘All the rooms are empty,’ one of the ARU officers said as she dashed into the lounge. ‘No sign of the child anywhere here. The mother must’ve taken her somewhere.’
‘Thanks, Phil. Shit.’ I was gripped by a sense of foreboding. I’d naively hoped we would find her in the flat, safe and well. ‘We’ll need to search the place to find her address book. Anything with contacts in it for family, babysitters, friends. No phones were retrieved from the shop. I’ll look in here.’
The six of us split up again.
A few moments later Dan yelled from the bedroom. ‘In here. I’ve found something.’
We piled in.
He had a pink and mauve book in his hand and was fanning through the pages. ‘It’s the emptiest bloody address book I’ve ever seen.’
‘Right, keep looking. Can you bag up her hairbrush for DNA analysis? I’ll go downstairs to the café and ask what they know about Kelly and Abbie.’ I took Kelly’s photograph with me and hurried out onto the street and into the bustling café. Here, workmen were tucking into fry-ups and large mugs of milky tea. I spotted the boss, giving orders in broken English to his waiting staff.
‘DI Rahman,’ I said, and showed him my warrant. ‘The little girl who lives upstairs? Abbie Turner. Could you tell me when you last saw her?’
‘Not sure.’
‘I need you to think back, please? Thursday, Friday, Saturday or yesterday?’
‘Let me see. It was when the man come with roll and bread . . . so Friday.’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘I give the little girl a roll, see.’
‘Was the girl with her mother?’
‘Together. Yes.’
‘What time was this on Friday?’
‘Half eight? Something like that.’
‘Have you ever seen this man with Kelly, or arriving to visit her?’ I showed him a photograph of Simas Gudelis on my phone.
He took a quick look. ‘Many time,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘And other men too.’ He handed me a mug of tea. ‘Sugar on tables.’
‘Thank you.’ I took the mug. ‘Are you sure that no-one has been in or out of the flat in the last three days?’
‘Nobody. We hear everything. Clomp, clomp. She has no carpet. Like elephant.’
‘Do you know if she has any other regular visitors? Babysitters? Friends?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve seen her with many people but no-one I can tell who. She come here sometime for pusryčiai.’
‘Does she talk to any of your customers?’
‘No. Keep self to self. Best way.’ He tapped his nose.
Dan was weaving between the café tables, waving a book in the air, so I handed the owner my contact card. ‘Thank you. If you think of anything useful, please call us.’
‘Let’s go,’ Dan said. His pale face looked strained and he was clutching a different address book. He turned me round and bundled me towards the door. Once we were on the street, and out of earshot of the café, he stopped. ‘I’ve got several places to contact. Most of the names in her address book are men. She also has the numbers for half the cheap hotels in London.’
‘As in she’s an escort?’ I said.
‘Or masseuse. Something like that.’
‘So, Simas Gudelis could have been a client?’
‘Or even the baby’s father.’
‘Christ. Poor Indra. This is going to be an awful shock for her. So much for a fresh start for the two of them.’ I was thinking about Abbie. ‘Still no mention of the girl’s father anywhere? Photos of her with a man?’
Dan shook his head, his expression a grimace. ‘The analysts can go through Kelly’s contacts more closely. I’ve got the numbers of everyone whose details seem linked to child care. There are two companies and four babysitters. I’m going to start ringing round as soon as we are in the car.’
‘Right, I’m calling it,’ I said. ‘We need to launch a manhunt. The clock’s been ticking since Friday and we’re running out of time.’
Maya, 1 p.m.
‘Good afternoon. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Jackie Lawson.’ Her expression was grave. ‘A manhunt is underway for four-year-old Abbie Turner, who has been missing since Friday morning.’
We were back at the station, watching the press conference live on television.
‘Her mother, Kelly Turner, has been identified as the second victim in the arson attack which took place in the Brick Lane shop on Friday afternoon. Ms Turner lived in Romford.’
At the bottom of the screen, an image appeared. A fair-haired woman was standing in a kitchen. She had a nose-stud and pink tufts in her hair and was leaning over a little girl with brown hair in bunches. The girl was crouching in between her mum’s feet, trying to pull white plastic sunglasses off her mother’s head. The two of them were roaring with laughter.
A gasp curled round the room.
‘It’s believed that Ms Turner did not have her daughter with her when she visited the shop, and we are investigating a number of hypotheses. Abbie may be with family or friends. She may be with babysitters. She may be on her own somewhere. She is approximately one hundred centimetres tall and weighs forty pounds. She has brown curly hair which she often wears in bunches. She has a small graze on her right cheek which is now likely to be a scab.’
A close-up showed a grinning face with gappy teeth, a brown scab on her cheekbone and a nick on her nose.
‘The Metropolitan Police urgently needs your help to find this young girl. If she’s been alone for three days, she’s likely to be suffering dehydration, and time is critical. She could be very poorly indeed. We urge anyone with information to contac
t Detective Inspector Maya Rahman at Limehouse Police Station.’
‘Poor kid.’ I switched the screen off and looked round at the faces of everyone in the team.
‘Boss, I’ve just had a call from Nilufar Ahmed,’ Alexej said. ‘Several youth centres are going to hand out “Find Abbie” leaflets and put up posters. And our Media Office are putting shareable posters in police and community Facebook groups, and on Instagram and Snapchat.’
I felt my spirits lift. What had Frazer said about social action? We’d give him social bloody action.
‘We’ll find her.’ I heard the resolve in my voice. ‘I don’t know how, but we will.’
‘So, none of her regular babysitters have her, and Kelly’s estranged from her family?’ Alexej looked from Dan to me. ‘Are we certain she wasn’t in the fire?’
‘I’ve double-checked Dougie’s reports and the ones from the fire service. The teams combed every inch of the building, and the fire dog was given plenty of time. Even if Abbie had been burnt, Dougie is positive the dog would have smelled her, and that they would have found some of her bones and definitely her teeth.’
‘Urgh.’ Shen turned away.
‘With Abbie’s mum dead,’ I said, ‘gathering data about what she was wearing is going to be extremely difficult. The analysts have been studying Kelly’s social media. They are trying to contact her Facebook friends, so we can get whoever her best mate is to meet a uniformed officer at Kelly’s flat. She might be able to figure out which of Abbie’s clothes are missing.’
Alexej had his face glued to his monitor.
‘I’ve sent two officers back to conduct a search,’ Dan said. ‘Laptop, clothes, photos, any further address books or diaries.’
If Abbie had died in the fire, it would be tragic. But if she was alive, it was our job to protect her. All of a sudden, the stakes had got a whole lot higher.
Dan, 1.55 p.m.
Dan left the nick in record time. It was a rush to get to St Katherine’s Dock for the flash mob, but he made it with a few minutes to spare. From his vantage point on a bench outside the Dickens Inn, he surveyed the area once more and checked his watch.
The back-up officers were on stand-by out of sight and the local Fire Station was on red alert. The WhatsApp message, which had been sent to the police dummy phone, had said to meet at 2 p.m. outside the Dickens Inn.
‘Can you hear me? Over.’ He spoke softly into the lapel mic.
‘All good,’ Jackie’s voice came back. ‘Alexej’s got the mobile. No texts or emails and nothing new on the forum.’
‘Thanks. Nil going on here.’
‘Standing by.’
Dan sat still. Vigilant. Eyes peeled. They were all praying there wasn’t going to be another arson attack.
Suddenly, three teenage lads appeared from nowhere, all attitude and swagger, swearing and joking, and carrying a set of mini-speakers which they set down in the square between the pub and the marina.
‘This looks like them,’ Dan said into his mic.
‘Received.’
Five younger kids arrived from the opposite direction, and an older teen lurked behind them, rugby-scrum muscles and a thick neck. The bruiser-guy gave a nod, and one of the youths who’d carried the speakers took out his phone. An up-tempo dance track burst into the April air. Almost in unison, the youths pulled black bandanas over their jaws and mouths, and Dan shot onto red alert.
‘Stand-by, stand-by,’ he said into his mic. ‘Black masks with the LfA logo.’
The kids leaped into action, whooping and shrieking excitedly. They sang along with the lyrics, throwing energetic moves in time with the beat. The air was a writhing mass of arms, wild and gesticulating, and waving at passers-by.
The track changed, and next it was rap. Two girls skipped over, giggling. Pulled up black bandanas and joined in.
‘That’s Sophie bloody Williams,’ Dan hissed into his mic.
She linked arms with one of the lads and shrieked with excitement as he spun her round. For her, it was exactly as she’d said – escapism.
‘My kids are crazy about hip-hop,’ said the plain-clothed PC who was standing a few feet from Dan.
Dan was silent. Last thing he needed was a talker.
One of the younger kids began handing out sparklers and matches, and encouraging people to light them.
Dan’s stomach lurched. ‘Sparkler alert,’ he said to control.
The music switched to a house track. The dancing continued, and so did the screams and laughter. Then, the music stopped, as suddenly as it had started, and the dancers all clustered in a scrum, congratulating each other and punching the air. Dan scoured the scene for the bruiser-bloke, but he was nowhere to be seen.
The group was still hyper, clapping each other on the back. They cheered while they issued each other with playful punches. Then they picked up the speakers, and rolled out of view in a wave of adrenaline and noise. Seconds later, the square outside the pub, by the marina, looked exactly as it had fifteen minutes earlier.
‘That’s it. They’ve gone. It’s all over.’ Dan looked round at the plain-clothed policeman. ‘What the hell just happened?’
‘They’ve what?’ Jackie asked through his earpiece.
‘They danced to three tracks of music and cleared off. Little sods. They’ve wrong-footed us again. It was a distraction, I bet you.’ Dan knew they’d been duped.
And try as he might, he couldn’t shift the feeling that very soon someone else would be dead.
2 p.m.
In the pool of black blood, the weakened body was defeated. The young lungs spluttered their final breath in the darkness, as though they were calling out, desperately hoping to be rescued, yet all too aware that no-one cared.
Where some deaths were grieved, this one wouldn’t be. There’d be no mourners at the graveside, for there’d be no funeral. There’d be no mother’s tears, for the mother was dead, and this was a dispensable life.
It was the last breath. A fine mist sprayed everywhere.
He dipped the pistol barrel in the fresh blood and began scrawling on the wall in large, angry letters . . .
Maya, 3 p.m.
The atmosphere in the office had changed completely when I arrived back. Alexej was issuing instructions to two uniformed officers, and Shen was pinning new information on the boards. Dan collared me before I reached my desk.
‘You must’ve been in the lift. I just rang you.’ His excitement was infectious.
‘What’s happened?’
‘We’ve got two men dumping a body at the Manor House site. On the CCTV.’ He pointed at Alexej, who had several screens in front of him. ‘And LfA has taken their site down. Come and see.’ We got to his desk and he opened his browser. ‘They’ve removed the whole website.’ The page showed the message:
Not Found
The requested URL / faqs / was not found on this server
Apache / 2.4.29 / (Unix) Server at LfA / Port 80
‘I’m relieved it’s gone but I don’t have a good feeling about it,’ I said to Dan. ‘Why would they take it down now?’ My mind was reeling with possibilities. ‘It’s got to mean something.’
‘Don’t know. It’s good news about the CCTV though.’
‘Can I see?’
Alexej shifted to a large monitor. On the screen, a non descript-looking white transit van pulled up at the entrance barrier to the Stepney site. The driver swiped a card, the metal arm swung up and the van entered. As it turned a corner, another man was visible in the passenger seat.
‘Wind it back a bit, can you?’ I leant forward to get a better look. The clock on the camera said it was 01:12:22.
We watched the scene again.
‘Have you checked the number plate?’
‘Nil return. They must’ve made up false plates.’
‘This has got to be them, hasn’t it?’
The camera showed the van driving further onto the site and round the perimeter towards the crane where Patrick Ryan’s body w
as found. The vehicle parked up with its rear facing the patch of grass.
‘They get out . . . move around . . .’ I checked Alexej’s face. ‘Typical. Black balaclavas.’
‘Here they open the back doors of the van.’ He traced their movement over the screen with his finger. ‘And heave out something long. That’s Ryan. See the red crane with the light on it?’
Next, they lugged their cargo onto the grass.
‘Shame we can’t make out their—’
‘Hang on. They’re a similar height, both tall and thin. Like Kenny Hayes and his brother.’ I stared at him. ‘Is it? Yes, I think that’s Kenny Hayes and his brother, John. We’ve got them.’
Alexej’s face was jubilant.
‘Guys,’ I yelled to the rest of the team. ‘Possible IDs on the Manor House CCTV. Kenny Hayes and his brother.’
Dan and Shen gathered round, followed by Jackie.
‘We can compare relative heights and frames with our existing photos of Kenny and his brother,’ Dan said. ‘I agree it looks like them.’
Jackie’s voice had relief in it too. ‘Now we just need to find them. Manor House Developments must know what swipe card they used at the barrier.’
‘Where the hell was their security?’ Dan asked. ‘The foreman kept emphasising how much equipment they have. Surely it can’t be that easy for two blokes in a van to get onto the site and dump a body?’
‘You wouldn’t think so, would you?’ I said gruffly.
Having dumped Ryan’s body, the two men tied the bandana over his mouth, took out a canister from the back of the van and emptied its contents over him.
‘So, that’s the petrol. Zoom in on that, can you? See if it’s the same can as the one Mr Walker found at the back of the off-licence.’
Alexej froze a shot and enlarged it.
‘It is. It’s the same sort.’ It was another link with the arson. Perhaps we could trace a supplier and whoever bought them.
