by William Shaw
‘Because I think we’re getting somewhere.’ From the other side of the room, Cupidi was conscious of Ferriter watching apprehensively.
McAdam frowned. ‘An assault on a paedophile by a vigilante group is huge. Moon believes it’s the start of something messy. We’re going to need to get numbers onto it fast before it gets out of hand.’
‘Right now, I need her too. We’re on the point of making a breakthrough. I know it.’
McAdam frowned. Cupidi knew he trusted her; how far could she push that? ‘Everybody thinks this is a Mickey Mouse case,’ continued Cupidi. ‘They’re wrong. There’s something in this. I know there is.’
McAdam picked up his phone and called DI Wray over.
‘Can’t you make the decision?’
‘Not without consulting DI Wray.’
Damn, thought Cupidi. ‘Just forty-eight hours. If we don’t make a breakthrough by then . . .’
McAdam looked over at Moon, who was sitting on the edge of a desk at the far end of the room, still dressed in sweats. There was a gym at this building. Most mornings Moon took advantage of it.
Wray arrived, dodging his way round the desks, pink-shirted and full of joie de vivre. ‘Good morning, Toby, good morning. To what do I owe . . . ?’
‘Sergeant Cupidi here has asked if Constable Ferriter can stay helping her out on the Turner gallery investigation.’
Wray’s smile grew. ‘Not possible,’ was all he said. ‘Violent assault. All hands on deck.’
‘In what way is the case I’m dealing with not a violent assault?’ blurted Cupidi. ‘You don’t exactly lose an arm by accident.’
Wray turned to her, like a schoolteacher examining a pupil who had spoken out of turn. ‘What I’ve been hearing is you hadn’t made any significant progress on that. I’m still of the opinion it’s just some medical student prank.’
‘We’ve ruled that out,’ said Cupidi curtly.
‘Alex. I know you get very involved . . .’ said McAdam.
Wray interrupted, wrinkling his small nose. ‘Where’s your evidence it’s anything bigger?’
That was the point. Three days in and she still had no idea of who the victim – if there was one – might be. Cupidi wasn’t giving in that easily. ‘That’s why I need Constable Ferriter.’
‘If we don’t get on top of this paedo assault, we’ll be looking at a right shitstorm media-wise, won’t we, Toby?’
McAdam turned to Cupidi. ‘I’m afraid I have to agree, Alex. It’s a priority.’
Wray had known which buttons to press. McAdam was a good boss, but always too conscious of PR.
‘Will that be all?’ DI Wray was saying, rubbing his pudgy hands together.
Across the room, Cupidi caught the expression on Ferriter’s face. Her eyebrows were raised in expectation. Cupidi had promised she would try to do something to keep her out of Peter Moon’s way; she had failed.
*
‘But I thought you said—’
‘I tried. I promise. Wray is going to reorganise the teams at the morning meeting.’
Ferriter looked stung. ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ she said.
They stood in the downstairs ladies’ toilet, each holding cups of bad coffee.
‘Serve me right for being such an easy shag,’ said Ferriter.
‘Don’t.’
‘I’m just going to jack all this in. Transfer out to something easy like traffic or detention. I can’t hack it here. Not with him. Makes me feel like a drunken slag.’
‘Shut up, Jill. Not because of something stupid like this. You’re good at this stuff.’
‘I don’t even remember if the sex was any good. Bet it wasn’t.’
A uniformed superintendent emerged from the cubicle, looked at them, standing each with their paper cup in hand, and raised an eyebrow.
Cupidi gave her a thin smile. ‘Morning, ma’am.’
‘Oh Christ,’ muttered Ferriter.
‘Come on, Jill. We have an hour left. I’ll keep chasing Astrid Miller and the Foundation’s curator. You get on to EastArt. Get them to send any records they have about whoever signed in to access the Foundation’s artworks in the last two months. If we turn up something before the meeting . . .’
‘Seriously? Clutching at straws.’
‘Most of my career.’
Upstairs Cupidi rang both numbers twice; left messages. Then she called Zoya Gubenko at the Foundation’s office.
‘No. Still nothing from Astrid,’ said Gubenko. ‘Not even email, no. Obviously I will pass on that you are keen to hear from her.’
‘What about Abir Stein?’
‘I’ve had a couple of emails from him. Just answering queries.’
‘Tell me. How long is it since you’ve actually spoken to him?’
‘Mr Stein? Maybe three weeks now.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘I don’t think so. As I said, he’s answered emails. He works for other people too.’
‘What about Astrid Miller?’
A pause. ‘Maybe a week since I spoke to her.’
‘She hasn’t been home for a week?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe longer. But she hasn’t been to the office. Or called.’
‘Does she often just disappear?’
Gubenko dropped her voice. ‘Yes, sometimes. But . . .’
‘But what?’
‘Usually she is in touch more regularly. It is kind of weird for her just to disappear like this. But she is her own person, you understand?’
‘Are things between Mr and Mrs Miller OK?’
Zoya Gubenko didn’t answer.
‘Is there something going on in their relationship that we should know about?’
‘No,’ Gubenko said abruptly. ‘Nothing like that. I must go now.’
Cupidi looked down at her watch. There were twenty minutes left until the morning meeting. Ferriter was nowhere to be seen.
Even if things weren’t good between Evert and Astrid Miller, and she didn’t know they weren’t, that didn’t necessarily mean anything, did it?
TWENTY-EIGHT
Ten minutes before the meeting, she looked around for Jill Ferriter, but she wasn’t in the incident room.
Pulling out her phone, she texted her: U OK? Where are you?
McAdam appeared on time, clapping his hands. ‘Come on, let’s do this, folks.’
People gathered, arranging chairs into a semi-circle around the table as the meeting began.
If she hadn’t made any progress on the Turner case, neither had the team dealing with the murder of Michael Dillman, the man found in the scrap yard. Forensics had turned up nothing on the gun that had killed him. There had been no shells left at the scene. The killer had worn flat-soled shoes that would be impossible to identify.
The best lead was still Dillman’s motorbike, which had been spotted by number plate recognition software several times over a twenty-hour period following the murder; however, nothing had been seen of it since. Within a few days of a gang-related death there were usually whispers and rumours from informants. Even if it was nonsense, people liked the drama. This time, strangely, nothing.
‘Maybe the killer was from out of town.’
‘Possible.’
‘Maybe it was something from his time inside, some grudge?’
‘We’ve looked into that. But yeah . . .’
‘This is weird, isn’t it?’ said Moon, from the back of the room.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, there’s nothing to go on. Nothing that makes any sense.’
It was true, thought Cupidi. These days as a detective you were usually drowning in information, trying to prioritise what leads to follow. Weird that there was so little background noise about this killing. Even the team heading the investigation had lapsed into silence.
‘Next,’ said McAdam. ‘Frank Khan. Attempted murder. Sergeant Moon?’
Moon stood and pushed through to the front. He started with a picture of the bloodstained doorstep
of a block on a new estate.
Moon spoke. ‘Mr Khan. Discovered outside his flat at Riverside Wharf by a neighbour shortly after he’d made a call to the police saying that he was worried about someone ringing his doorbell, behaving in a threatening manner. Stabbed by unknown assailant. He’s currently in Darent Valley Hospital with multiple organ failure. He was interviewed at the scene of the crime by uniform, but he refused to say who’d attacked him. Uniform said he sounded scared. Another neighbour said they saw two young men running from the location but weren’t able to identify them as they were wearing hoodies. We haven’t been able to speak to the victim today because his condition has deteriorated.’
Moon continued. ‘Turns out Frank Khan is known to us. Sexual offenders register. Used to be a piano teacher. Done for assaulting pupils. Served four years in Lewes Prison. Released a year ago under a Sexual Offender Prevention Order. So now we’re wondering why he should be so shy about telling us who stabbed him. Pretty obvious that it’s connected to his past. Former sexual assault victim maybe? Father of a child who he interfered with? Then last night it turns out that a group called England Rising published a list of six drug dealers and paedophiles with foreign-sounding names on their Facebook page just a couple of weeks ago. Khan was top of the list. It said they were watching them. This is looking more and more like a vigilante attack.’
‘England Rising?’
‘Far-right group, possibly affiliated to National Action. Their name started cropping up online last year after National Action were proscribed.’
Cupidi looked around the room. Where was Constable Ferriter? She was supposed to be here. She couldn’t just disappear because she didn’t want to be put onto Moon’s team.
‘Do we know who they are, the members of this far-right group?’
‘There’s about a dozen of them, we think. We have a couple of names based in Rochester. Trying to round them up now.’
Cupidi would be up next. It would not look good saying that she needed Ferriter on her team if the constable didn’t even bother to turn up for the briefing. ‘What about the description of the two assailants?’ she asked.
‘Only seen from behind by the same neighbour that found him. Both wearing grey hoodies.’
‘Car?’
‘He didn’t see any.’
‘Is it possible they’re local to that area then? They knew who he was?’
‘Don’t know, yet. Someone must have recognised him, though.’
A constable piped up. ‘Did the assailants attack him at the door, or in his flat?’
‘Inside. From the blood pattern, it looks like he was stabbed in the kitchen or hallway.’
‘Inside?’
‘Sorry,’ said Cupidi, ‘but why would he let someone into his own flat if they were from some vigilante group?’ People turned and looked at her.
‘We don’t know yet,’ said Moon.
Cupidi was puzzled. ‘How many people were on that list? On the England Rising list you talked about?’
‘There were six names,’ Moon said. ‘Four were sex offenders, out on probation or on Prevention Orders, like Khan.’
‘Have any of the others had any threats or attacks you know of?’
‘We’ve been trying to get in touch with them, obviously. But no, as far as we know, none of them had been attacked yet. So at this stage, I’m looking for resources to profile any far-right sympathisers who might fit—’
Cupidi interrupted again. ‘No sign of forced entry?’
A hesitation.
‘These attackers were in his flat,’ Cupidi said. ‘Doesn’t that suggest he invited them in? You said he refused to identify them? If they were England Rising, why did he invite them in?’
A young constable chipped in. ‘Straight or gay? Those assaults he was done for, were they men or women?’
Moon paused. ‘Just kids. They were boys.’
Someone else asked, ‘Did you check what his contacts were on his phone? Had he arranged to hook up with anyone?’
‘No. Not yet.’ Moon looked less sure of himself now.
Another voice pitched in. ‘Where would the attackers have escaped to if they were on foot? Can you show us a map?’
Leaning down, Moon fiddled with his laptop and brought up a Google map with a pin on it. When it arrived on the projector, Cupidi assumed he had made a mistake. It was exactly the same selection she’d been looking at on this same screen on Monday morning. Moon pointed to the pin. ‘There. That’s his house.’
‘Hold on. Is this the same area as where the Co-op guard was killed last week?’ she asked.
‘Pretty much, yes. The shop was the other side of the A206 – just here.’
Cupidi sat thinking for a second.
‘So they might have parked a little way off? Or had someone picking them up,’ another constable was saying.
Cupidi raised her voice again. ‘Anyone got the CCTV images of the two boys who were shoplifting?’
The chatter stopped.
‘Why?’
‘Because they were both wearing grey hoodies, weren’t they?’ she said.
There was a long pause as people considered this. Then someone broke the silence. ‘Christ.’
‘They were boys. Teenagers.’
Something seemed to shift in the room. Suddenly everyone was talking. ‘What if he had been coming on to them?’
‘That would explain why he wouldn’t want to talk, why he was scared shitless. If they were teenage boys, he’d be going straight back inside.’
One of the constables had already logged into HOLMES and was searching through the files on that case.
‘Got it,’ she said, turning her screen round so that other people could see it.
‘Jesus. You’re right.’
The photo was fuzzy and it was hard to make out their features, beyond the fact that one of the boys was black, the other white. They both had their pale-coloured hoods up, half covering their faces.
‘How old did the shop worker say she thought they were?’
‘Sixteen, maybe seventeen.’
They all stood and crowded round the woman’s screen, leaving Moon on his own at the front of the room.
‘Explains why he’d be reluctant to identify them.’
‘Where the hell are they, then? They’re minors. They can’t just disappear.’
Moon said, ‘Maybe they were egging him on or trying to rob him.’
‘They’re kids, for God’s sake,’ complained another officer, and Cupidi was grateful it didn’t have to be her saying that. She thought of Zoë. They would be about the same age, probably as arrogant and vulnerable in equal measure.
‘Lethal ones though, by the look of it.’
‘What have we got, then? Rent boys committing a robbery?’
‘Maybe self-defence. What if he was trying to assault them? He’s got form, after all.’
‘What about the man he said was ringing his bell?’ Moon said.
Another copper said, ‘Probably wasn’t one. But he couldn’t really call us and say, “Excuse me, I’ve just been stabbed by an under-age rent boy,” could he?’
‘Now you have something you can ask Mr Khan, when he wakes up,’ McAdam said. ‘Sounds like you need uniforms to help you look for the boys. Next. Alex? I think you said you were heading for a breakthrough?’
Cupidi looked around the room. No Ferriter. ‘Right,’ she said, standing. ‘What we know is that the arm was placed into the ceramic jar between two to three weeks ago. We know that from forensics, and from the fact that CCTV confirms that the artwork remained untouched during its time at the gallery.’
‘And?’ McAdam said.
‘Yesterday, we visited the Miller Foundation to confirm—’
The door at the back of the room swung open and Ferriter strode in, mouthing ‘Sorry,’ as Cupidi looked up.
Cupidi tried to remember what she had been saying. ‘. . . That the arm was stored at a unit called EastArt,’ she continued. ‘And we also kno
w . . .’
What did they know?
The men and women all looked at her, expectantly.
‘And we also know . . .’
Ferriter pushed her way to the front of the room. ‘And we know that during that time frame only one person from the Evert and Astrid Miller Foundation visited the facility to inspect their artworks,’ she said.
She reached the front of the room. ‘EastArt is a secure storage service. It contains work worth millions and millions. Damien Hirst. Ai Weiwei. All of that stuff. And the Foundation has their own dedicated storage zone within that, rented from EastArt who happen to keep good records of everyone who visits and requests to inspect the art. I’ve just got off the phone to them and they emailed me this.’ She reached into her folder and pulled out a single sheet of paper. ‘It confirms that the only person who accessed the room that contained Funerary Urn was a bloke called Abir Stein,’ said Ferriter, ‘the Foundation’s curator.’
Cupidi smiled at her, then took over. ‘We have been trying to trace Abir Stein but have been unable to reach him. And it turns out that the Foundation have not spoken to him for about three weeks.’
‘Why would he be involved in doing a thing like this?’ asked McAdam.
‘No idea,’ said Cupidi. ‘But the timing means he’s the only person who had the opportunity to place the arm in the jar.’
*
The meeting broke up soon afterwards.
Cupidi caught up with McAdam and Wray by the door. ‘Well?’
‘Moon is the one who needs help,’ said McAdam. ‘He’s wasted half a day already barking up the wrong tree.’
‘Just give me Ferriter until we’ve tracked down Stein and brought him in. He’s our main suspect.’
Wray sighed. ‘OK. Just get it sorted.’
At her desk, Cupidi gave Ferriter’s arm a squeeze. ‘I thought you’d done a runner,’ she said.
Moon was watching them from the other side of the big room.
Ferriter rolled her eyes. ‘I know what you’re doing, Alex. Forcing me to work for my freedom.’
‘Call Zoya Gubenko. Get Stein’s home address.’
As Ferriter sat down at one of the workstations, Cupidi left her and wandered over towards Moon.
‘Thanks for your input just then.’ Moon avoided looking her in the eye. She had shown him up in front of the rest of the team. ‘It was very . . . useful.’
