The next three hours were spent fielding phone calls and sifting through volumes of grainy black and white camera footage. Honor was fortunate enough to be treated to a KFC bucket by Danny around three o’clock, both herself and Samir having become sufficiently absorbed in their work to forget to eat.
‘I’ve got nothing so far,’ Danny mumbled around a chicken leg as he stuffed fries into his mouth. ‘Nobody who’s carrying a body over their shoulder, anyway.’
‘Nothing on mine either,’ Samir added. ‘I’m getting through it faster than I thought I would, there’s not much traffic on the roads and even less pedestrians. The fog’s dropping, though, so it’s harder to pick things out.’
Honor nodded. There were only around eight thousand residents in the square mile, most of which was occupied by office space for the financial district.
‘Same here,’ she said, using a handful of fries to scoop barbeque sauce out of a little plastic container. ‘Fog’s concealing a lot but the cameras are covering every angle so one way or another this guy’s got to show eventually.’
Honor’s phone rang, and she hurriedly swallowed the rest of her food and answered it. She listened for a few moments, asked a couple of questions, then rang off.
‘That was the rector of the church,’ she said. ‘He’s there right now with Gary Wheeler and the site manager, Jenson Cooper. Let’s head back over and see what they have to say.’
‘Gary Wheeler alibied out,’ Danny told her as he got up, wiping his mouth and grabbing his coke, ‘asleep at home with his wife before Sebastian left All Bar One, which she and their children confirmed. Not sure about the site manager.’
‘Want me to come with you?’ Samir asked.
Honor had actually fancied going on her own, but she could see the keen gleam in Samir’s eye, and there was no way she was going to deny a new detective what he wanted: they were in far too short supply.
‘She’ll hold your hand for you if you like,’ Hansen offered.
‘Let’s go,’ Honor said, grabbing her bag and looking at Danny. ‘All of us.’
One of the big advantages of working with City of London Police was that virtually every crime scene was within walking distance. The force’s territorial boundaries extended from the Two Temples to the Tower, north up to Finsbury Square and were exclusively north of the water. Quite literally a square mile, the territory was densely packed with financial buildings, the skyline dominated by architectural icons such as St Paul’s Cathedral and the Tower of London. The City of London Police were renowned for running immense anti–corruption operations within the financial district, bringing down companies for multi–million–pound investment fraud and other white– collar crimes, a far cry from the gritty reality of a brutal homicide down in the city’s darkened streets.
St Magnus the Martyr’s ancient walls looked out of place amid the high–rise office blocks, its foundation stones at an odd angle compared to the arrow–straight placement of the buildings around it. Honor led the way through the entrance arch, glanced up only briefly to the soaring heights of the spire glinting in the sunlight above.
The sepulchral interior of the church greeted them, several of Gary Wheeler’s contractors working inside the building attaching cables to the walls. Two men stood whispering beside the wooden door that led up into the belfry. One was dressed in black and quite elderly, obviously the rector, while the other was wearing a hard–hat and fluorescent jacket. Both turned as Honor approached and presented her warrant card.
‘Reverend Gregory Thomas,’ the rector greeted them with a friendly handshake. ‘I’m the rector. This is Jenson Cooper, the site manager responsible for the day to day running of the renovations.’
Cooper was a robust–looking man with salt–and–pepper hair and a thickly forested jaw, who shook Honor’s hand gently.
‘You’re responsible for site security here?’ Honor asked Cooper.
‘At this site and a few others north of the water,’ Cooper confirmed with a soft South London accent, ‘all run by Wheeler Construction. We handle contracts for Hamlets ward.’
‘And you were here last night?’ Danny asked.
‘No,’ Cooper replied. ‘I’m running a site up near Aldgate. I helped set up the work here and handle the security, but it’s Gary’s team that are replacing the tiles up on the steeple.’
‘Can you account for your whereabouts last night between about nine pm and seven thirty am this morning?’ Honor asked, going for the kill right away.
Cooper thought for a moment. ‘We closed up here at about five, I then went with the lads to the pub.’
‘Which pub?’ Samir asked.
‘Er, Brewdog, on Tower Hill,’ Cooper replied, unperturbed. ‘I was there until about ten, then went home.’
‘Can anybody verify that you were at home?’ Honor asked.
Again, Cooper thought about it for a moment. ‘I live near Ford Square, but there’s a camera at one end. I’ll be on it.’
Honor glanced at Samir, who was dutifully taking notes. Danny saw Samir’s frantic scribbling and smiled, but she could see that he was impressed with Samir’s attention to detail.
‘Reverend,’ she said, ‘you understand that I have to also ask you the same questions?’
‘Of course,’ the rector replied. ‘My work here at the church kept me late, until about nine I think, upon which I retired for the night. I live in the church annexe.’
Honor raised an eyebrow. ‘So, you were here the entire night?’
‘I always am,’ the rector replied with a kindly smile. ‘St Magnus is my ministry and my calling, so unless there are duties that take me further afield, I am always here.’
Samir continued making notes, focusing studiously on the conversation. ‘Did you hear or see anything at all suspicious?’
‘Nothing,’ the reverend shrugged. ‘It was unusually quiet for that matter, perhaps the fog kept everybody indoors.’
The square mile was often mostly deserted during the small hours, unlike the rest of the city, which never slept. It was interesting to Honor to think that the city of London had been actively busy for literally thousands of years, never once ever being truly quiet.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘So, the church was locked, the site secured, and by nine o’clock or so everyone’s either asleep or absent. Do we have anything to show us how the perpetrator of the crime managed to get into the church?’
‘We do,’ Cooper said. ‘It’s this way.’
Cooper led them back outside to the church’s main doors, which were located inside an archway beneath the spire. They were big and made from thick, dark wood, the kind of doors people built when she assumed knights were still wearing armour and riding about on gigantic horses.
‘The locks were forced,’ Cooper said as he gestured to the doors. ‘These are eighteenth–century locks. This archway was the medieval entrance to the city for all people crossing the Thames on the old London Bridge. There are parts of old Roman wharfs still attached to the stonework here that are nearly two thousand years old. Point is, somebody would have to know something of how these doors work in order to gain access to the church interior.’
Honor looked at the big doors, heavy ironwork locks secured with thick bolts in the ancient wood.
‘So, you think they knew how to pick the locks, or did they have some kind of pass key?’ Danny asked.
‘Could be either,’ Cooper shrugged. ‘Hard to tell, but the doors were closed and locked when Gary Wheeler got here.’
‘Then how would you know they’d been forced?’ Honor challenged.
‘The iron’s dented,’ Cooper explained. ‘You can see inside the barrel with a torch. Whatever tool they used, it’s made of something harder than iron and it left impressions inside the barrel. The original keys are made of the same iron as the locks and don’t leave impressions when they’re used, or if they do, over time those impressions are uniform and easily recognisable as wear and tear. These marks are scratches, and the
y’re fresh.’
Honor nodded, understanding as she then walked through the doors and into the church interior.
‘So, they come through here. Then what?’
‘Then nothing,’ the rector said, having followed them outside. ‘The church interior has no further locked doors, other than those on the ground floor. The intruder would have had access to the rest of the building, the steeple included. There was nothing to stop them moving about in here.’
Honor looked back over her shoulder to where the church entrance was shut off by fences erected by Wheeler Construction.
‘Do you have security cameras covering the church?’
‘We’re setting them up as part of the contract,’ Cooper confirmed, and gestured to some wires tacked to the church walls where his men were working, Nexus Cables Ltd imprinted on the surface. ‘It’s all state of the art, but they’re not active yet. Gary’s getting the footage from the site security cameras downloaded for you, which might have something on them. If he doesn’t send it soon, give me a call and I’ll sort it out.’
‘And the security gates were closed and locked when Gary arrived?’
‘Yeah,’ Cooper replied thoughtfully, then turned to one of the workmen attaching cables to the church walls. ‘Kieran, the gates were closed when that body was found, right, before Gary got in here?’
Kieran strolled over, Honor noting the name–tag on his hi–viz vest – O’Rourke. ‘Yeah, security cameras were running, he had to shut them off to get in here.’
Honor frowned. ‘Well, if they were running then the trespasser should show up on them, shouldn’t he?’
O’Rourke nodded. ‘Weird though, right? Someone goes to the trouble of hacking the church locks on the main doors, but doesn’t bother with the security cameras or gates. Why not just cover the cameras up or something, help conceal themselves?’
‘Anything else?’ Honor asked Cooper.
‘The guy must have headed up to the belfry, and then set up some of the spare planks to hang from. Nothing from the moment they got in here is rocket science, and with nobody about, he could have taken his time. None of us get in here any earlier than about seven–thirty in the morning.’
Honor looked around her at the old church for a moment, then the outside porch area. She glanced at Danny, then made a polite excuse to the rector, O’Rourke and Cooper before leading Danny outside into the courtyard, just behind the church itself. Ancient stone flags were worn smooth by the passing of millions of feet through time immemorial, and littered with the first fallen leaves of autumn. An old manhole cover tilted slightly as she walked over it to stand in front of the church.
‘What do you make of it?’ Danny asked. ‘The guy didn’t fly in here, and Wheeler’s people seem straight up.’
‘We’ll check the site security cameras as a priority,’ she replied. ‘Somebody must have come through.’
‘They also had to coerce a presumably resistant victim up into the bell tower and murder them, or at the very least carry a body up there,’ Danny added. ‘No easy task.’
She checked her watch: ten to four.
‘We’d better get back,’ she said. ‘Group Commander meeting.’
Samir joined them as they left the church, the rector promising to let them know if he recalled or noticed anything unusual in the church. Honor didn’t expect to hear from either of them – neither man showed any concern about her questions, and both acted like most people did when they found themselves unexpectedly caught up in a murder investigation: cautious and nervous at first, but increasingly interested as they realised that they were easily able to alibi themselves out of suspicion.
They walked back to Bishopsgate in silence, arriving just in time for the meeting. DI Katy Harper was present, as was Detective Chief Inspector Tom Mitchell, a tall, powerfully built man who had served as a Royal Marines Commando before joining the force as an Armed Response Officer. Mitchell was Harper’s direct boss and ruled the Major Incident Teams with a firm but fair hand, the rock at the centre of City CID. Held in a conference room on the second floor, the briefing was led by Detective Chief Superintendent Andy Leeson, a former beat officer who had made his way up through the ranks during a twenty–four–year career with the City of London Police. Young– looking for his age, Leeson cut a dashing figure and didn’t waste any time on getting down to business as the door to the room was closed.
‘Firstly, good news on the Brendan Flint extradition,’ he began, gesturing to a white board covered with photographs of various suspects in the department’s on–going cases. ‘He’s been arrested in the Netherlands and will be returned to custody in the UK by next week.’
There was a commingled exhalation of relief and a few smiles from the team on MIT 2. Flint was a convicted murderer who, during a burglary on Cheapside, had used a leather belt to throttle to death an eighty–seven–year old war veteran. Flint had somehow managed to slip through customs and out of the country two years previously, and the team had been liaising with Interpol the entire time to locate and apprehend him.
‘A little more cheer also for MIT 1,’ Leeson added. ‘Alan Pike was today successfully convicted at the Old Bailey of the homicide of his wife, aggravated assault of their son, battery and several other lesser charges. He’s remanded in custody and we’re recommending a life sentence, at least fifteen years.’
More smiles, a couple of pats on the backs of detectives who had worked tirelessly for weeks to secure the convictions. One, a veteran DS named Moore, had spent the past four weeks giving evidence at the trial and sleeping in the office to ensure he never missed a moment.
‘As most of you will by now know,’ Leeson went on, ‘we have a new case. MIT 2 are working on the suspected homicide of Sebastian Dukas, who was found hanged this morning from the steeple of St Magnus. Where are we with that right now?’
DI Katy Harper spoke without hesitation.
‘DS McVey is working the case, with DCs Green and Raaya. We’re gathering and assessing evidence and should have some firm conclusions by the morning. The wife and the construction company owner have alibied out so far. The media’s been on the phone but we’re staying tight–lipped for now, at least until we have something concrete to say.’
Leeson nodded, and glanced briefly at Honor. ‘Welcome back.’
Honor smiled and hoped to hell her skin wasn’t colouring up, but she could feel the eyes of the rest of the team on her and prickly heat antagonised the skin at the back of her neck. A few faces caught her eye, smiles, nods of recognition on some, caution and perhaps even concern on others.
‘Okay, the Henderson disappearance, where are we on that?’
The DI began recounting yet another on–going case as Honor stood in catatonic silence and waited for the wave of panic looming around her to subside. Nobody is looking at you. For once, this was demonstrably true as the rest of the room was listening to DI Harper and paying Honor absolutely no attention whatsoever. Except Samir. She caught him glancing at her a time or two and wondered what the hell he was looking at. Maybe he could see through her thin veil? Maybe he fancied her? No, too young. He was attractive enough to do far better than her, and besides, he could…
‘Honor?’
DCS Leeson was looking at her expectantly, as was the entire room. Honor blinked and zapped to the present as her mind performed a rapid calculation, reviewing the words that had been echoing around the room during her brief reverie.
‘We don’t need the HAT car right now, so it can stay with the on–call team,’ she replied. ‘The Dukas case seems to be singular in nature, at least for now.’
‘You think it’s connected to other crimes?’
Another brief pause as Honor’s panicked neurons realigned themselves.
‘The killing appears random, with nothing in the victim’s life history to support a notion of motive. What bothers me is the almost ritualistic way in which the body was presented. Had somebody simply wanted Dukas dead, they could have killed him a
nd hidden the remains and we might have never been the wiser. Yet, they put him on display in a very visible manner. It worries me that a killer would go to these lengths, take such risks, make such an effort for no apparent motive whatsoever.’
There was a long silence in the conference room as everybody digested what she had said.
‘You think that this was not a one off?’ Leeson asked her.
In for a penny…
‘It’s too elaborate,’ she said. ‘I think that they wanted to be seen, to show off what they can do. I’d put money on there being another murder, assuming we don’t find a motive. Somebody’s trying to get our attention.’
A few barely concealed smirks appeared on faces around the room. The prickly heat returned to Honor’s neck and she felt her cheeks flush red. DC Hansen piped up, leaning against one wall of the room with his arms folded and an expression of weariness on his features.
‘More likely a Mafia hit or something similar, yardies on the rampage. They like to advertise their kills.’
‘That would have clear motive,’ Honor replied in defence. ‘There’s nothing yet to suggest Sebastian Dukas had any involvement with organised crime.’
‘You think that the city has a serial killer on the loose?’ Leeson pressed.
The DCS was not mocking her. In fact, his features were as hard as stone. The smirks around the room withered away.
‘I can’t say, sir,’ Honor replied, grateful that Leeson was at least giving her the time of day. ‘I just don’t see any reason why a body would be displayed in the way that Sebastian Dukas’s was, unless somebody really wanted it to be seen. There was no way that we could conceal the body before the fog lifted. Everybody knows about it, and by now the rumour mill will be alive across the city. Tomorrow’s papers will have images of that man’s remains on their front covers, which will be immensely painful to witness for the victim’s family. Murderers generally do everything they can to conceal their crimes. They don’t normally go for front–page coverage.’
Phobia Page 4
