“Seen Hughes anywhere?” he asked. Gavin Hughes, manager at Monks Court. Bald, ex-boxer, Captain Bird’s Eye beard. Wasn’t as though you’d miss him in a crowd. Not that there was a crowd. The DI took a confirmatory glance round. It was the only crime scene he could recall where there wasn’t a band of gawpers taking perverse pleasure in other people’s personal tragedies. Maybe SOAP fans didn’t give a toss what happened to Monks Court clientele.
“Probably on the phone somewhere,” Preston said. “Trying to organise emergency accommodation.” The CFO nodded at the pavement opposite where dazed-looking men wearing nightclothes huddled in foil blankets. They put Powell in mind of refugees, except the shelter they’d been given had been snatched away. An old woman moved among the men, offering hot drinks from a tray. Salvation Army or local do-gooder? Powell shook his head. Unbelievable. Everything those poor bastards owned was going up in flames and an old biddy was dishing out PG Tips.
“I’d best try and find him,” Powell said. “Thanks, mate.”
Preston tapped his helmet. “Sorry about your man, Mike. Shit thing to happen.”
“Say again?” He’d heard nothing about a police casualty.
“Young officer, first on the scene? I heard the door blew in his face. He was whisked off to the burns unit.”
Bad, then. No wonder Karimjee and Wells weren’t around. Jesus, thought Powell, could it get any worse?
TUESDAY
29
Death messages, they’re called, when a cop breaks bad news. Bev had delivered an unfair few in her time, hated getting them even more. She was woken just after six by a call from Brighton CID. They’d found Andy Quinn’s body late the previous night; he’d probably been dead a week. The pathologist couldn’t be more precise because the July temperatures had accelerated decomposition.
DI Paula Ryland was calling in response to Bev’s messages on Andy’s machine. Bev sat up, wide awake but barely able to take it in. And there was more. When Ryland realised Bev was a cop, she didn’t hold back. Andy Quinn had died from multiple stab wounds. The DI had never seen anything like it in twenty years’ service.
Shock. Grief. Anger. Disbelief. Tears welled in Bev’s eyes. It wasn’t as though she and Andy had been particularly close. But at the end no one had been there for him. The guy had lived alone and died alone – unless the killer had hung around to watch.
“Dangerous line of work,” Ryland said. “Private eyes make a lot of enemies.”
Got that right. “So do cops,” Bev muttered. In her mind’s eye she again saw the photograph taken twenty-odd years before, on the steps of the old law courts. Andy Quinn. Robbie Crawford. Doug Edensor. And the guv.
Still out at Monks Court, Mike Powell was slumped on the kerb, knees drawn up, head cradled in both hands, weak with exhaustion, as a huge red sun emerged against a lavender and violet background. The DI was oblivious, mind on other matters. Most firefighters had been stood down, a five-man crew was damping down; there was still a danger the fire would re-ignite. Hoses were directed at occasional wisps of smoke that drifted from the wreckage. The stink was everywhere. It clung to the DI’s clothes and hair. Even if he noticed, he was past caring.
When it was safe, a fire investigation team would move into what little remained of the building, to confirm or otherwise John Preston’s conviction that there’d been more than one petrol bomb, more than one seat of fire, maybe more than one arsonist.
Powell glanced up as a car pulled into the street. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun. Still rising, it was reflected now – blood red – in the windows of the office block. Not that it would rise for everyone. The fire had eventually claimed two lives.
Powell stared at his hands. The first victim’s burns had been so severe identification was impossible at this stage. The second victim was the manager, Gavin Hughes. He’d gone back into the burning building, succumbed to the dense acrid smoke. The DI closed his eyes.
“Sir?”
Ram Karimjee knelt beside Powell nervously jangling car keys. The sergeant’s soft brown eyes were red-rimmed and held a message Powell knew he wouldn’t want to hear. Ram swallowed. Powell watched the bob of the man’s Adam’s apple, studied the sweat on his top lip, the stubble on his chin, the grey streaks in his hair, the amber flecks in his irises – any damn inconsequential thing so he didn’t have to acknowledge what the sergeant couldn’t bring himself to say.
“Simon...” Ram spread his hands – nothing there.
“When?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
The Monks Court arson attack had claimed its third victim. PC Simon Wells had died in the burns unit at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital.
The second Ryland rang off, Bev hit the shower, grabbed a navy-blue trouser suit from the rail and headed for the kitchen. Thoughts racing, she slung two slices of Mother’s Pride into the toaster. Was it too early to call the guv? He had to know about Andy soon as. The dithering lasted all of two seconds before her hand went for the phone; it rang before she picked it up.
“Bev. Vince here.” Terse. Dead serious. Not the affable Sergeant Hanlon.
Hand over mouth, she listened as he told her Simon Wells and two other people had died in an arson attack at Monks Court.
“If you’re near a TV,” Vince said, “they’ll be running it on the next bulletin.”
Stunned, she flicked the remote, watched without seeing the end of an interview with a vacuous blonde selling the latest volume of her life story. The fire deaths led the news.
The Beeb had got hold of an old photograph of Simon from somewhere. Might’ve been taken during his gap year. The hair was long, the tan deep, the laughing eyes crinkled against the sun. Fucking incongruous, seeing him like that, knowing he was dead, knowing how he’d died. She often wondered how grieving families coped when happy snaps of loved ones were plastered time and again over the media. She had a damn good idea now.
Feeling sick and light-headed, she binned the toast, scribbled a note to Frankie and drove to Highgate in a blur. Along the corridors, officers huddled in twos and threes discussing the night’s events. Every cop had a favourite story about Simon. He’d been a popular guy, twenty-five years old, engaged to a nurse at the General. Never a harsh word to say about anyone.
She overheard a DC mention that Byford was addressing the troops at a special meeting before the brief. There was just time to grab a machine coffee and check her desk for messages.
And dry her eyes and blow her nose behind closed doors.
A couple of minutes later, sitting beside a crumpled-looking Mac Tyler in the conference room, Bev reran the news footage in her head, this time focusing on what had looked like snatched shots of Powell. The DI had appeared pale, gaunt, almost shell-shocked. Might be because of the harsh lighting. But not the gash on the forehead. She wondered how he’d picked that up.
She glanced round, not surprised he wasn’t there. Powell would’ve been on the go most of the night. Every available officer was there, though: seats were full, walls lined, windowsills perched on as they waited for the latest. Word was that Byford was still with the brass on the sixth floor. No worries, Bev thought; the big man could hold his own.
She felt sorry for Powell. If the DI had ordered a police guard, would there have been an arson attack? Had it been her decision, she’d be asking herself the same question. Along with everyone else, judging by the mutterings doing the rounds.
Event. After. Easy. Wise.
The conversational buzz halted abruptly when the doors flew open and the superintendent stalked to the front. With Powell, who strove to match the big man’s stride. So the DI hadn’t gone home. And no, the harsh lighting hadn’t been responsible for his drawn features. As for the guv’s appearance, were the salary and perks of rank worth the burden? Everything bowed from the eyebrows down. And she’d yet to tell him about Andy Quinn.
There were a hundred ways to start. Byford chose the one that meant the most. “Simon Wells was a fine officer a
nd a good man.” His glance took in every cop before he delivered a dignified tribute in dispassionate tones. The silence was absolute, expressions grim. Bev sensed fury, too. Every man and woman in the room wanted to get their hands on the fire-raisers, wanted justice. Rightly or wrongly wanted revenge. Observing, gauging reactions, Bev almost missed the guv’s next words. “DCS Flint will lead the investigation, codename Phoenix.” She frowned; thought she’d misheard. Byford glanced at his watch. “He should be here within the hour.” She hadn’t.
The brass were bringing in a senior officer.
Detective Chief Superintendent Kenny Flint headed up Wolverhampton CID. A sharp disciplinarian who didn’t suffer fools full stop, the man was well named. He was known for playing it by the book. No one doubted his ability; but no one was happy about an outsider investigating the murder of one of their own.
“He’ll bring in a small team, and supplement it with some of you as and when needed,” Byford added.
Using his own people as well? With huge difficulty Bev kept her face neutral, exchanged bland glances with Mac and Daz; tried to catch Pembers’ eye but Carol was concentrating on the DI. It was patently obvious the move had been dumped on the guv from a great height. Like the sixth floor.
“It’s no slur on anyone here,” Byford said. “It’s an operational decision. Don’t read anything into it.”
Yeah, right. Bev folded her arms, crossed her legs, swung a foot.
“I mean it, Bev.” Message received and understood, then. “We’re already stretched to the limit.”
Two major ongoing inquiries: one small boy kidnapped, suspicious death of another. And now the fire. She gave a brisk nod of grudging acceptance.
“DI Powell will continue as Operation Hawk SIO. He’ll take the early brief, then get off home for a few hours. I’m still senior officer on Sapphire. We’ll reconvene in the kidnap room in ten minutes.”
Could be worse. Flint was investigating the arson attack. Nothing else.
“There may be overlap,” he said. “Whatever. We’re in this together. Everyone will co-operate. Clear?”
Chairs were scraped back as people rose to get on with it. Byford hadn’t finished. “Just before you go. In case there’s any doubt, DI Powell has my full confidence.” The guv must’ve heard mutterings as well. “What happened last night was tragic. It should never have happened. But it was down to a criminal act, not a bad call. Given the circumstances, given what we had to go on, I’d have made the same decision.”
Bev nodded. Good on you, guv. How many bosses stood next to the fan when there was so much excrement flying around? Powell was lucky; they all were. Thank God the big man had knocked the early retirement idea on the head last year. The very thought of him not being around sent a shiver down her spine.
30
Where was the guv? Bev had checked the other incident rooms and now leant, ankles crossed, against the wall outside his office. There was a pile of stuff to do but she was going nowhere till she’d told him about Andy Quinn’s murder. When there were so many inquiry balls in the air, it was easy to drop a communication bollock.
She straightened when Byford appeared at the top of the corridor with a steaming mug in his hand. She could smell the peppermint from here; his irritable bowel was about to turn nasty.
“Guv.” She held the door open. “A word.”
“Not now, Bev.” Uniform had pulled in Jaswinder Ghai, Maxwell’s heavy, an hour earlier. Byford was about to interview him. Bev’s request was bad timing, given everything else that was going on.
“It won’t wait, sir.”
The ‘sir’ alone was enough to make Byford change his mind. “Two minutes.” He pointed at a chair.
It took less. The guv’s face rarely showed his thoughts. She’d no idea what he was thinking.
“Is anyone in the frame?” he asked when he’d heard her out.
She shrugged. “They’re going through Andy’s files. Ryland seemed to think it might be some client he pissed off. But...” She shouldn’t need to say it.
“But what?”
“Come on, guv. Crawford, Edensor, now Andy Quinn. It’s got to be connected.”
He considered for a few seconds. “If there is a pattern, Andy’s murder doesn’t fit. You say it was a violent attack. No attempt to make it look like an accident.”
“Your mates are dying, guv.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“And you doubt there’s a pattern?” Her fists were clenched. “You’re the only cop in that line-up who’s still alive.”
“Do I look stupid?” Her face – unlike his – said it all. “Hasn’t it crossed your mind I might be looking into it?”
No. Her mind was brimming already. She hid concern behind truculence. “Yeah? And?”
“Listen. And don’t interrupt.” He gave her the edited version: the stolen BMW that killed Maxwell’s son, the police pursuit, the death threats, the interview with the crime boss, the fact that Maxwell had gone into hiding.
“Fuck didn’t you bring him in earlier?” she exploded.
She flinched when he slammed the desk. “Don’t tell me how to run an inquiry! Maxwell knows more about the law than most briefs. What was the point of dragging him in with no evidence? Watching him walk away waving two fingers in the air? Even now there’s no proof. Just a stack of questions I want answered.”
“You’re right. Sorry.” She swallowed. “Guv, the stolen car, the police pursuit – were you involved?”
He couldn’t lie to her. He rose, reached for his jacket. “I’ve got work to do.”
Getting rhesus negative from a small stone would be easier. Byford stared at the man mountain that was Jazz Ghai, willing him to open his eyes let alone his mouth. He reckoned heavy was the right word for Maxwell’s chief goon. The Asian sprawled, ankles crossed, brawny arms folded, massive thighs encased in denim overhanging the edges of a metal chair. Sleek blue-black hair was pulled taut in a long ponytail, incongruous alongside such overt machismo. Ghai was a giant – without the gentle gene. Hence the two bulky uniforms on the door.
It wasn’t that Ghai wouldn’t talk; he had words to say. Two of them, repeated ad nauseam.
Byford knew he was in danger of losing it; made a huge effort to stay calm. “Let’s try again, shall we?”
Eyes still closed, Ghai flapped a hand as if bestowing permission.
“Why film Robbie Crawford’s funeral?”
“No comment.”
“Where’s the camera?”
“No comment.”
“Where’s your boss?”
“No comment.”
Byford slammed his chair back. He’d had a bellyful. Every question had provoked the same response. Ghai knew nothing – or was saying nothing – about Doug Edensor, Robbie Crawford, death threats, Maxwell’s alleged foray into child pornography; Wayne Dunston’s delivery round or Daniel Page’s kidnap.
The detective hadn’t even mentioned Andy Quinn’s murder. The MO wasn’t Maxwell’s style, and it didn’t fit the pattern of the other killings. He’d keep an open mind – but as far as he recalled, Quinn hadn’t been involved in the crash that killed Maxwell’s son.
Byford paced the small airless room, Ghai’s after-shave more than a match for the stale smoke and sweat. They were both going round in circles – again. Ghai’s stonewall technique was an interview nightmare. Byford had no chance of catching him in a lie, throwing words back in his face. Ghai wasn’t suddenly going to trip up. Not over three syllables. No wonder he’d refused a brief. He was brief without a lawyer.
The routine had been going on for more than an hour: sixty precious minutes down the pan as vital inquiry work backed up outside. Byford could hear it: Highgate’s corridors buzzed with urgent voices, quick footsteps. And Ghai now feigned sleep.
The detective slipped the e-fits of Doug’s alleged assailants into a file. Not surprisingly, Ghai had dismissed them early on. “Right, you’re free to go...”
Incredible so mu
ch flesh could move so fast. The Asian was bouncing on Reeboks before Byford opened his mouth to finish the sentence. “On condition you let us search your property.”
Ghai stiffened, every molecule rigid, face suffused with colour – even the pockmarks. Black granite eyes glittered; Byford caught the merest glimpse of what he was capable of, what lay beneath the skin. For a second, he thought the Asian would lash out. So did the uniforms; they stepped forward smartly.
The heat faded almost as fast. Ghai slowly, deliberately, started cracking his knuckles as a thin smile twisted his mouth. “Be my guest.” The sound was surprisingly loud. Byford refused to wince. Not impressed by the hard man. Nor the offer. If Ghai was happy to let them take his place apart, anything they’d want to find had already been removed.
Mike Powell was still at Highgate. The gash on his forehead throbbed and he was so knackered he could barely walk straight, let alone think. What he had to do would only take a minute, then he’d nip home for a few hours’ sleep. He dry-swallowed a couple of paracetamol, picked up a pen, mentally reviewed Operation Hawk as he wrote.
He had sensed a level of hostility at the brief but had just about held his own. The squad knew what had to be done anyway; establishing the identity of the dead child was priority. Without a name they had nothing. Hopefully they’d get a steer from the media. The boy’s picture had been widely circulated and was getting national coverage, according to Carol Pemberton. Uniformed officers had been out at Paradise Row since first light, knocking on doors, stopping traffic, canvassing people on the streets. Powell briefly closed his eyes. Please God, let there be a development by the time he got back. Maybe the boy’s death was one case he could close.
Gently the DI ran a finger along the wound at his temple. It would undoubtedly scar. Not just physically. Every time he saw it, he’d remember. Remember the night he fainted at a post mortem that revived the trauma of his brother’s death, the night three lives were lost in an arson attack that could have been prevented.
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