by Tony Kent
‘Where was the body found?’ Sarah asked.
‘In his own home. In Southwold. Seems he was murdered in his living room.’
‘Was there anyone else in the house?’
‘You mean apart from whoever crucified him?’
‘Don’t be clever, Alex.’ Elton interrupted the exchange between his reporters. ‘Just answer the question.’
Redwood did as instructed.
‘No, Sarah, there wasn’t anyone else,’ he answered, the sarcasm gone. ‘The victim lived alone. Retired.’
‘Was there anything else on the scene to suggest the same thing? Messages? Videos?’
Sarah’s instincts were kicking in. Something did not feel right.
‘Not according to my source,’ Redwood replied, his tone beginning to betray impatience. ‘But the crucifixion alone seems to speak for itself, doesn’t it?’
‘Maybe,’ Sarah said, grasping the issue that had been floating in her mind from Redwood’s answers. ‘But it’s a big change of approach. Extremism is usually a spectacle. Either a shocking amount of deaths, or shocking deaths done very publicly. This is one man, killed in private.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘Just that we shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions,’ Sarah replied. ‘And that we should be reporting this carefully. We should be keeping any suggestion of religious extremism out of the story, at least until the police are more certain.’
Redwood opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by Elton raising his hand and shaking his head.
‘Agreed,’ said Elton. He looked directly at Redwood. ‘This needs to be reported responsibly. We don’t want to be accused of stirring up some sort of anti-Islam campaign, especially if this turns out to be something else entirely.’
Elton turned to Sarah.
‘Do you want to take this one?’
Sarah looked at Redwood. She was tempted by Elton’s offer. Not because she particularly wanted the story; no, it would just be for the pleasure of seeing Redwood lose it.
It’d be no more or less than the unscrupulous bastard deserves, Sarah thought. After all, there’s no way he came by these details ethically.
‘No,’ Sarah finally answered. Her own ethics had won out. ‘It’s Alex’s story. Besides, I don’t have the close contacts Alex has in Suffolk Police. They probably wouldn’t be so keen to cooperate with me.’
Redwood showed no gratitude for Sarah’s generosity. Just anger that she had been offered the story at all. He did not need to speak for Sarah to read him.
‘Then I guess the story stays with you, Alex,’ Elton said. ‘Does the crucified man have a name?’
‘Adam Blunt.’
The name hit Sarah’s ear like a hammer. She had heard it before. Not recently and not often. But there was something about it. Her mind went into overdrive, shifting through long-forgotten memories, searching for why that name might be relevant.
‘Do you know anything else about him?’ Sarah asked.
‘No. Nothing.’ For the first time Redwood seemed hesitant. ‘Why?’
‘I’m not . . . I think . . .’
Got it!
It was all Sarah could do to keep the thought inside.
‘Why?’ Redwood asked again.
‘Because I’ve heard of an Adam Blunt,’ Sarah could finally explain. ‘He was a lawyer Michael used to speak about. A solicitor. They’d worked on a few cases together back when Michael was much younger. Nothing since I’ve known him; the only reason I know the name is that Michael was invited to Blunt’s retirement party a while back. He didn’t go and I remember him telling me why; he absolutely hated the guy. And he said a lot of people in the law felt the same. It’s why the name stayed with me. Michael doesn’t dislike a lot of people. So for him to hate someone, that’s pretty unique.’
‘Look, this insight into your personal life is all very nice,’ Redwood interrupted, his impatient tone undisguised, ‘but I’m sure there are a lot of Adam Blunts in the world, Sarah. The odds on it being the same guy are fairly infinitesimal.’
‘I know the odds, Alex,’ Sarah replied. ‘But I also know how odds get shortened. And if you’d allowed me to finish, you’d be able to follow the point. Because that retirement party Michael didn’t go to. Guess where the guy was retiring to?’
Redwood didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The look on his face said it all.
And so Elton spoke for him.
‘Southwold in Suffolk?’
‘Southwold in Suffolk,’ Sarah confirmed. ‘And if it was that Adam Blunt who died last night, that gives us two controversial lawyers, both murdered with unusual levels of violence within twenty-four hours of one another.’
She turned to Redwood.
‘Now tell me the odds on those murders being unconnected?’
TWENTY
Michael waited in Derek Reid’s living room, listening to the sound of plates and cutlery that was coming from the kitchen, where Reid was preparing a lunch he had insisted on making.
Michael still felt a little uncomfortable whenever he visited Reid here, which had once been Michael’s own home. The Islington townhouse from his bachelor days. Those days were now gone, and the memory of the events that had ended them had made it impossible for Michael to ever again think of this place as ‘home’.
The ground floor of the house had changed dramatically since Michael had lived here. The bomb damage the building had suffered almost two years ago had made extensive repairs necessary.
Michael had paid for the rebuilding work, but he had never returned.
And so Reid, freshly divorced and in need of a place to stay, had moved in. At the time Michael had been splitting himself between London and Belfast, keeping his career alive in the capital while doing his best to identify and sell off or close down the complicated business interests of his murdered brother, Liam Casey. It had been a hard few months – stressful and emotional – so Michael had been grateful for the house-sitter; one less worry off his mind.
The arrangement continued after Michael returned to London full-time, proposed to Sarah and moved into the engagement present of a Chelsea home they had been given by Sarah’s father. That gift had allowed Reid to remain in Michael’s Islington house and he had been here ever since, enjoying the benefits of the low rent charged by a friend who no longer needed the money.
Reid walked into the room, a large tray in his hands that held an open bottle of red wine, two large glasses, two plates that were empty and a full-sized chopping board that was not. Reid had carefully arranged a host of foods onto the wooden board. Expensive, acorn-fed Iberico ham. A selection of blue and hard cheeses. Various raw vegetables – peppers, cucumber, celery and tomatoes – sliced for easy consumption. A mix of roasted and sun-blushed vegetables to complement. And artisan bread, to round off the meal.
Michael was impressed by the spread, but then he would have expected nothing less from Reid, mourning or not.
‘Help yourself.’
Reid indicated to the board as he spoke. Not waiting for his own invitation, he was already placing forkfuls of cured Spanish ham onto his plate.
‘So how are you?’
It was Michael’s first chance to ask the inevitable question. Reid had guided him to the living room upon arrival before disappearing into the kitchen.
‘You won’t believe what they did to him, Mike.’
Reid spoke without looking up from the board. Continued to pile food onto his plate.
When he finally sat back and looked Michael in the eye, tears were filling his own.
‘It’s no way to go. No way at all.’
‘How did he die?’ Michael would not have asked if Reid had not given him the cue.
‘He was crucified, Mike. He was beaten, cut to pieces and fucking crucified.’
Michael did not know what to say. Reid’s emotions were raging, barely concealed beneath the surface.
‘That’s . . . that’s just . . . just unbelievable.’ Michael could
think of no other words.
‘You’re telling me. I’ve never heard anything like it.’
‘Look, no offence but are you sure? I mean, there was nothing in the press about it. And Sarah has no details like that and she’s spoken with the lead investigator. Where did it come from?’
‘It was from the lead investigator,’ Reid replied. ‘A detective called Levy. She told Russell. Well, confirmed it, anyway. After one of her team told him. He probably shouldn’t have told me if it’s not being released to the public, but it’s what happened. Phillip was crucified, Mike. He was bled out by cuts all over, and his testicles were removed and left in his mouth.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Michael immediately saw the inappropriateness of the expression. He moved on. ‘Did you tell Sarah any of this when you spoke to her?’
‘I didn’t know any of this when I spoke to her,’ Reid replied.
That makes sense, Michael thought. Explains why she didn’t say anything.
Michael moved the conversation forward.
‘Do the police have any suspects? Anything at all?’
‘Doesn’t look like it. Russell said that Levy seemed capable. That she seemed driven. But I get the impression that they’ve got nothing.’
‘I know Levy.’ Michael jumped at the chance to say something positive. Anything that could give Reid hope. ‘Joelle Levy. She’s been involved in a couple of my cases in the last few years.’
‘I’ve heard of her,’ Reid said. ‘But I’ve never come across her. I hear she’s good. Is she?’
‘She’s excellent, Derek. Exactly who you want on a case like this.’
‘Maybe a little young?’
‘She’s probably about the same age as me, give or take a couple of years,’ Michael replied. ‘But she’s got an old head and she’s got fire in her gut.’
‘That description sounds like a Michael Devlin girl.’ Reid smiled for the first time since Michael’s arrival. It was a welcome sight. ‘Anything you want to tell me about her?’
‘There’s nothing I want to tell you! Ever!!’
Michael and Reid were laughing before Michael’s answer was finished. For Michael it was mostly a laugh of relief, relief that – for all of the tragedy of the last twenty-four hours – his friend was still capable of the act.
The two men continued to chuckle, until a comfortable silence fell between them. A silence that can only exist in a true and confident friendship.
They worked their way through the food that remained on the board, with Reid eating at least twice as much as Michael. Only when the food was done did they speak again.
‘You didn’t answer my question.’ Michael picked up his wine glass, sat back into the comfortable armchair and looked Reid in the eye. ‘How are you?’
‘I’ve been better.’ Reid’s answer was as matter-of-fact as Michael would expect. Close friends do not need to dress up the truth. ‘Hearing that Phillip had been murdered was bad enough. But finding out what had been done to him? I almost didn’t get through that, Mike.’
Michael nodded his understanding but said nothing.
‘If I hadn’t been with Russell . . . if I hadn’t needed to hold him together. It was the only thing that got me through.’
Once again, Reid’s eyes filled with tears as he spoke. Michael instinctively reached out and placed a hand on his friend’s right knee. He squeezed it reassuringly.
‘I know exactly how you feel, mate,’ Michael said, knowing that Reid was one of the few people aware of his own past. ‘I know how empty you are. How you feel you won’t make it with this hole right in the centre of yourself. But you will. It’ll be hard as hell, but you will.’
Tears were now flowing down Reid’s cheeks as Michael continued.
‘I’ve been there, Derek. You know that better than anyone. I lost a friend as close to me as Phillip was to you. And I lost my brother. I watched Liam die. And believe me, I wanted to die with him. With both of them.
‘I didn’t see how I could carry on with them gone. How I could live with what had happened to them. Now not a day goes by that I don’t think of them both, Derek. They’re in my mind when I wake up and they’re there when I go to sleep. But we carry on. Whatever it is – human nature, evolution, whatever – we are made to move on. Something allows us to keep going. Even to laugh again. You might not believe it now but you’ll get over this. You’ll never forget him, Derek. But you will get over it.’
Reid said nothing in response. His tears were now flowing freely. Michael had shed a few himself, brought on by the memory of his own losses.
No words were needed. Instead, Reid reached out, placed a hand on top of Michael’s and squeezed. It was all the acknowledgement Michael would need.
The two men sat in silence for a few minutes more. Both drained their glass. Reid first, Michael not far behind.
Michael refilled both and took a mouthful before speaking again. It was time to move the conversation on.
‘I met Jenny Draper today,’ he finally said.
‘What did you think?’
Reid wiped away the last of his tears as he spoke. He was grateful for the change in subject.
‘She’s pretty impressive,’ Michael offered. ‘Confident, too.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing.’ Michael saw the mischief returning to Reid’s eyes. ‘Sarah has absolutely nothing to worry about.’
‘Jenny might think differently,’ Reid laughed. The humour diluted the lingering sadness in the room ‘Watch your back on that one, old boy.’
‘I’ll keep my eyes open.’ Michael welcomed Reid’s teasing. It proved his own earlier words. Reid had not lost his ability to laugh. ‘Anyway, since you keep mentioning it, is there something you want to tell me about you and Jenny?’
Reid snorted out the wine he had just sipped. From both his mouth and his nose.
‘Me?’ Reid bellowed the question as he caught his breath. ‘Christ, Mike. Did she look like she’d been crushed under an elephant?’
Both men roared with laughter at the comment, with Michael still chuckling when he felt his mobile phone vibrate in his jeans pocket. He took it out and the sound of ‘Boom Boom Pow’ by The Black Eyed Peas – the personalised ringtone he had set for Sarah – filled the room.
With a silent apology he got to his feet and walked towards the hallway door before putting the phone to his ear.
‘Hello gorgeous. What’s up?’
‘Hi, sorry, I’ve got to be quick. I was just wondering about that solicitor you mentioned a while back. The one who retired. It was Adam Blunt, wasn’t it?’
Michael’s smile disappeared. Replaced by confusion. Adam Blunt was a name he was never happy to hear.
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ he replied, careful to keep his voice low. The name would be even more unwelcome to Reid, and Michael did not want to dampen the relatively good mood he had worked hard to achieve. ‘Why?’
‘And is it right that he retired to a place called Southwold?’
‘Yeah, so I was told. Look, what’s this about?’
‘Any chance you know his address there?’
‘Not off-hand. I’m sure chambers would have it. In case anything came up with one of his cases. Give the clerks a call, if they have it they’ll give it to you.’
‘What about Derek? Would he have it?’
‘No chance.’ Michael’s tone was now firm. ‘I’m not asking Derek. Blunt’s a bit of a sore point with us, I’m not scratching it while he’s in this state. Anyway, why do you need it?’
Michael could feel the colour draining from his own face as he listened to what Sarah had to say. And one word in particular made his blood run cold.
Crucified.
It took him a moment to accept what Sarah had told him. When he did, the connection was undeniable.
‘Sarah,’ Michael finally said, ‘I think you need to know how Phillip Longman died.’
TWENTY-ONE
New Scotland Yard’s four Major Investigatio
n Teams occupied about a third of the building’s fifth floor.
A large communal work-space occupied by the bulk of the teams accounted for most of that. Open plan and cavernous. It was joined by a separate Exhibits Room. Smaller, but not by much. Designed as storage for the evidence accumulated in ongoing investigations and for upcoming trials.
Then there were the senior staff’s offices.
Chief Superintendent David Rogers ran the Special Crimes and Operations Directorate’s Homicide Command (Central), and so technically oversaw the four Major Investigation Teams under the Command’s umbrella. A political and public role, it came with the largest office and was where the buck ultimately stopped. The chief superintendent’s day-to-day involvement in any of the teams below him was, however, minimal.
Next was Superintendent Carol Walker. An admin rank, there to do what most would consider Rogers’ job.
Joelle Levy and three other detective chief inspectors came next. Each responsible for their own MIT and the fifty officers supposedly assigned to each of those four units. It was here that the everyday command of the four central Major Investigation Teams rested, with DCIs high-ranking enough to deserve a substantial office but still low enough that their hands stayed dirty.
Steven Hale was one of four detective inspectors who worked under Levy as part of MIT One, and he was also her most trusted. None of which made a difference to his office rights. Like his three MIT One colleagues of the same rank, Hale had to join two hundred other members of the Command’s four teams, hot-desking in a newly furbished office space that looked more like a Seattle coffee house than a working police station.
The incredible panoramic views of the River Thames, the South Bank and the London Eye did not make up for the impractical modern design of this ‘new’ New Scotland Yard, a relatively recent replacement for the far more workable, much larger New Scotland Yard that had now been sold and demolished to make way for more luxury residential homes.
It did not come close.
It was in this working area that Levy and Hale now sat, behind an empty desk in the team’s main workspace. Ahead of them were three tables, pulled together to sit end to end. All were piled high with case files. Four stacks per table. Twelve in all. How many cases per stack depended on file thickness. They varied wildly.
