‘It’s a difficult situation. It’s not a problem as far as we’re concerned, the team, but for our clientele … We work hard to let people know they can trust us and they’re welcome, whoever they are, whatever their circumstances. Life’s tough for all of them, but some in particular … Well, clearly I don’t have to tell you that addiction can lead to criminal behaviour. I don’t want people who need us to be put off because they think we’ve got a hotline to the police.’
‘It’s a message or two, not a hotline.’
‘Something like this morning, people getting hauled off during breakfast …’
‘Stuart and Martin weren’t “hauled off”, Mr Reid. They weren’t arrested. The only reason we had to stop them physically was because they made a run for it.’ She took a breath. ‘The work you do is very important, I don’t dispute that, but they’re witnesses in a murder enquiry.’ And still pretty much the only witnesses. ‘You can imagine why we couldn’t ring ahead this morning and also why I’m keen to release them now – we’ve had them all day.’
‘They’ll be in withdrawal,’ he said.
‘Exactly. So …’
‘We’ll pass on messages as soon as we see them.’
‘Great. Thank you. We’ll ask them to check in regularly so you might see them more often.’
‘That’s fine, we like Stew and Martin. If I can – Annika and I were talking about it before you arrived,’ he looked over at her. ‘We’d like to say that we really doubt they had anything to do with it. They’re a bit lost in life – Martin in particular’s had a very hard time – but they’re gentle souls. They’ve taken food from here to give to the other homeless at Gisborne’s a couple of times – portable things, you know, if one of the sandwich chains donates their short-dated stock, for example. Neither of them could do this.’
‘Unfortunately,’ Robin said, ‘in my experience, given the wrong set of circumstances, anyone can do anything.’
Half man, half chair was the gag about DC Les Hargreaves in Homicide; he didn’t so much sit down at the beginning of a shift as become one with his rolling chair and part from it as infrequently as possible thereafter, darting around the place at right angles, stomach nestled between the tops of his thighs like a super-sized Easter egg. His head was huge, too, round, bald and fleshy, with three parallel rolls of fat that appeared at the base of his skull whenever his head declined more than a couple of degrees from a vertical axis.
Les was known universally as Tarka or Tark. She’d asked about it the first time they’d had real drinks, the night they’d got their first solve as a team. (That had been a knife crime, too, a pensioner found dead in his chair, killed for the forty-two pounds he’d had saved in an old marmalade pot.) Eventually Tark had admitted to breaking down and sobbing at the end of Tarka the Otter. ‘His niece had to cuddle him better,’ Varan had grinned. ‘She’s six.’
When it came to CCTV, however, Tarka was king, his capacity for remaining alert during hours of mind-numbing footage almost super-human, and at around four o’clock that afternoon, if they’d been in the same room, Robin might have been tempted to kiss him.
He’d called her at the morgue. ‘As you know,’ he said, ‘we’re playing a pretty hard-going game of Sudoku with what we’ve got so far, tape-wise. There’s not many squares filled in – as well as all the broken cameras, two or three of the businesses along Warwick Street are being slow to hand theirs over, for whatever reason.’ He paused for effect. Get on with it, Tark, she’d barely refrained from saying but all she’d been doing otherwise was waiting for Olly’s next move, so she’d bitten her tongue and allowed him his glory-building suspense.
‘But,’ he’d said, ‘this afternoon we got tapes from the office building directly across the road on Bradford Street – you know, where the cartoonist is, Kate Coombs.’
‘And the camera on the eastern corner,’ Robin told the semi-circle assembled in front of the board now, ‘gave Tark this guy.’ She pointed to a grainy black-and-white still of a man in a baseball cap and dark anorak crouched on the sill of an open window. ‘Four thirty-seven yesterday morning, which is shortly after Dr Faulkner’s narrowed window for time of death.’
She glanced at Samir, who’d slipped in at the back of the room and perched on a desk-edge, long legs extended in front of him. ‘Based on what Stewpot and Martin told us, Rafferty’s team found an access point to the disused works next door to Gisborne’s and also evidence that someone’s been living or at least spending significant time there recently. Stuart and Martin said the man they saw had been coming over to get firewood and that would make sense.’ She indicated a photograph of what looked like a manhole cover propped off the floor on bricks, the remnants of a fire on top.
‘This is on the first floor. The building’s in much better condition all round than Gisborne’s. It’s only been empty two years and the roof’s still on, which makes a huge difference, of course. All the orthodox ways in – gates, doors – are padlocked and most of the windows are still intact – we can see him opening this one.’
She pointed at a cluster of three pictures further down. ‘What’s striking is how organized this is, especially compared with where Martin and Stuart were living. It’s rough, sure, but it’s far from chaotic. This big pile of cardboard here has a blanket that was actually folded; there’s a torch and a stash of tinned food. The best-before date on this milk here is today.’
A murmur from those who’d come in from outside and hadn’t already heard.
‘Kate Coombs says she thinks she’s seen him before but only once, Tuesday or Wednesday last week, she couldn’t say which, in the early evening, around seven o’clock, on her way back from getting some fish and chips.’
‘The fact that his things are still there is interesting. Given our presence in the area since yesterday, he might be lying low, intending to collect them later. We’ve had guys outside since the victim was found so we’re confident he hasn’t come in from Bradford Street and, unlike Gisborne’s, this building doesn’t stretch back to Warwick Street – there’s another factory directly behind it and that one’s in use. So, no rear access.’
‘He could just have abandoned the stuff, couldn’t he?’ said Tarka. ‘None of it’s valuable or that personal-looking.’
‘Yes, though you’d think that was risky, forensics-wise. Torch, cans – hard to think of better surfaces for prints. On the other hand, he may have been counting on us not finding it – different premises. Maybe he thought killing her in the other building – or near Stuart and Martin – would be subterfuge enough. Or, despite the apparent order of his set-up, he might have acted impulsively and been forced to scramble. Not all snivelling little crims are Professor Moriarty, as Kilmartin had pointedly declared in her hearing at least three times.
Robin looked around, making sure she had everyone’s attention. ‘So, potential progress, but unfortunately, as we’re all aware, we’re nearing the forty-eight-hour mark. We need to find this guy ASAP.’ She tapped the board with the end of her biro. ‘Now, Stuart and Martin’s initial descriptions didn’t completely match but based both on what Coombs says and the tins, it looks like he’s Indian or Pakistani rather than “Middle Eastern” – mango in syrup, curry potato, lentil dumplings. The brand’s Sohna. CCTV aside, our best line of enquiry now is finding out where he bought this food. We need to track down local stockists and talk to them all, no stone unturned. We’ll also do another round of house-to-house with this picture.’ She pointed to the still.
‘Right, ID. We’re still totally empty-handed: the autopsy told us nothing we didn’t already know on that front. At this point – forty-eight hours – we’re required to register the case with Missing Persons so they can get it up on their database.’ She glanced at Varan, who nodded, On it. ‘We could use a photo from the scene but my feeling is that, for sensitivity, we should use the e-fit for now. It’s just come in and, as you can see, it’s good – anyone who knew her would recognize her.’
‘
We put a marker up on the computer straight away yesterday, young woman’s body found, but we’ll do a PNC broadcast, too, now. We’ll start with West and East Midlands, London and South East, then, if there’s nothing in twelve hours, we’ll broaden it to all-forces.’
Samir was watching her with his usual complete focus and she met his eye. ‘One last thing,’ she said, ‘an idea that DS Thomas and I have discussed. Clearly, we’ve got very few clues about our victim across the board. That might be pure chance but let’s bear in mind the possibility that it’s deliberate. The lack of personal items might have been an after-the-event clean-up, but her whole look – hair, clothes, no make-up – was pretty much a blank slate. Was this how she presented herself normally? And if so, was it what she wanted? Or someone else? In either case, why? Because if it was deliberate, it was successful – she’s anonymous. But she is someone – was – and somebody else knows who.’
Samir closed her office door behind him. Robin braced herself, expecting complaints from Kilmartin at the lack of progress, but instead he gestured at her computer. ‘Can I? Something I want to show you.’
Behind her desk, he tapped about a bit then motioned for her to come and look. Moving close enough to see properly, she caught his scent, washing powder and the Old Spice deodorant he’d always worn and that she’d mocked him for back then even though she’d secretly liked it. She felt a sudden weird pang. Bloody nostalgia, she thought, forever ready to take a pop if you let your guard down for a second.
Facebook, the profile circle in the top left showing the silhouette of a man super-imposed over the flag of St George, a loudhailer to his lips. The banner along the top was a Union Jack, the words ‘For Queen and Country’ stamped in red across them slantwise like ‘Fragile’ on a box. Samir scrolled past Photos – she caught a glimpse of a lion-and-unicorn tattoo, evidently brand-new, and what looked like mugshots of two black men – to Videos.
The ‘Play’ arrow hovered above the head of a man sitting at a table. A Venetian blind in the window to his right was open but the slats were angled so that he was cast in a strange underwater light. He was about forty, with brown hair cut close to his scalp, beard trimmed to a similar length. Pale green eyes under eyebrows that arched up towards the outer corners, faunish and intelligent. He did a lot of weights, that was evident: his shoulders were wide and padded with muscle, and there were visible cords in his neck. The gym-bunny thing was never her bag, she was actively suspicious of anyone with a six-pack who wasn’t a professional athlete, but taken as a whole, she had to admit he wasn’t unattractive.
Samir dragged the cursor to the three-minute mark then hit play. ‘… again and again and again.’ The man’s voice was Brummie, and surprisingly deep given his age, almost gravelly. ‘At every level. We’re being ignored. We’re being cheated. Look at our health service. Look at the benefits system – immigrant families given houses straight away while British people are shunted from bedsit to bedsit for years, sharing HMOs with foreigners, people who don’t even speak English. And that’s if they’re lucky – there are good British people, useful working men, living their lives on the street.’
He pulled back, allowing his unseen audience a moment to drink that in. Then he gathered a breath and leaned forward, equal parts menacing and confidential. ‘I’m asking why,’ he stabbed the desk, ‘exactly why, won’t our police – West Midlands Police – prioritize British people? White British people, from the British families who have lived in this country – whose work has built this country – the place where the rest of the world now thinks they can come for an easy ride?’
‘This week, here in Birmingham, a black kid was killed. Guess what I’ve heard? That’s right, the police have arrested his killer. Today, the very next day, he’s behind bars, done and dusted, justice will be served. But on the same night, across town, a lovely-looking white girl was also killed, her body dumped in one of our derelict factories – derelict because jobs have been shipped overseas to India, China, Bangladesh, anywhere but bloody here, eh? Have the police got her killer? Have they fuck – never mind him, they don’t even know who she is.’
Samir leaned in and tapped to stop it.
‘Great,’ Robin said, moving to the other side of the desk. ‘So now the bloody BNP are sticking their oar in, too?’
‘His name’s Ben Tyrell. I had a tip-off from Cyber earlier.’
‘They’re watching him?’
He tipped his head from side to side. ‘Not really, they’ve got bigger fish to fry. Keeping an eye, that’s all. He’s clever, they said, knows where the line is and never steps over it. They just thought we should know we’re on his radar.’
Chapter Eight
The dashboard said 12 degrees as she drove home, surprisingly cool for the second week in June, even at this time of night. She opened the window and let some air swirl in. Her eyes were scratchy and she could feel the day layered on her skin, frying onions at the soup kitchen and the chemical tang of the morgue overlaid with hours of artificial light at the station. Sometimes she imagined it falling from the ceiling like dust, particulate and mildly toxic.
She was tired but her mental synapses were snapping away like a pinball table. There was no chance she’d be able to sleep yet but, as luck would have it, that wasn’t the plan.
Lennie being at Asha’s for the night was good for two reasons, the more important being that she’d certainly had a much better evening than she would have done sitting alone waiting for her to come home. Asha had an older brother, Austin, and the three of them hung out together, listened to music. Austin played guitar and was trying to get her to sing, which Robin liked. Len had a good voice, she’d been in the school choir back in London, but she didn’t use it now.
The second reason was more selfish.
When she reached Mary Street, she parked the car, locked it and walked down the road towards the Mercedes estate on the other side. He’d come from the top end of the street, evidently, and when she dropped into the passenger seat, the windscreen framed the view of the city centre, the quicksilver gleam of the Selfridges building, the cylindrical Rotunda speckled with lights like a cob of Indian corn. The car was warm and the cracked-leather seat shaped itself round her rear end like an old padded glove.
‘All right?’ said Kev, smile in his voice. ‘Long day.’
‘Yours, too.’
‘Mine was only a client dinner, though. Known Greg for years, more of a friend than anything now. How about you? I heard you got someone for that lad in Erdington.’
‘Webster did. Much slower progress on mine, unfortunately.’
‘You’ll get there. Nice surprise to get a text on a Monday, though – unusual, Len away on a school night.’
‘Might happen a bit if things carry on like this. She doesn’t want me to know it bothers her, but she doesn’t like being alone in the house after dark. Plus, of course, it’s way more fun at Asha’s.’
He nodded. ‘Well, anything I can do to help, pick her up, drop her off, say the word. I’m up late, out early, as you know.’ He gestured towards the windscreen. ‘Nice, this view of the city, isn’t it, all the lights twinkling.’
‘Yeah, it’s quite pretty. In the dark.’
He rolled his eyes, mock-despairing. ‘Watch it, that’s my home town you’re dissing.’
‘Mine, too.’
‘Oh, really, Judas? Thought the cock had already crowed three times – my mistake.’
‘Yes, all right. I’ve plighted my troth to West Midlands Police, haven’t I? That not enough evidence of home-town commitment for you?’
‘Only rented your house.’
‘No choice: years of personal-finance mismanagement.’ Plus the early days, when she’d earned a lot less and it had been a struggle just to keep them going. Once she’d paid the rent and Lennie’s babysitting, she’d have been better off on benefits, but that had never been the plan.
‘Well, time will tell – once a Londoner, always a Londoner, I reckon, adoptive or ot
herwise. It’s a state of mind. Mum and Dad said to say hello, by the way. I was round at theirs last night, we saw you on the telly.’
‘They don’t know about this, do they?’ Suddenly she wondered. Kev was very close to his parents.
‘Nah, ’course not. Good Catholic boy like me?’ In the glow of streetlight, she saw him grin. ‘All they know is that we’re back in touch.’
A tortoiseshell cat slunk across the road and disappeared into the shadows under the row of parked cars opposite. ‘Are you finished with Birmingham appreciation for the night?’ Robin asked. ‘Shall we go in?’
‘Before we do …’ He reached across and slid a huge hand behind her head, turning her to face him. He grinned again and leaned in. Sweetly, she noticed, he closed his eyes before his mouth met hers.
Kevin Young, sexy kisser – those were the words that had gone through her head the first time it happened. She still couldn’t entirely remember how the kiss had actually come about – large quantities of alcohol had been involved, of course. It had been the anniversary of Corinna’s funeral and the three of them, she, Kev and Samir, had gone for a drink. After Samir had gone home to Liz and the kids for dinner, she and Kev had stayed and got smashed.
She might not remember how it happened but she definitely remembered how it felt. She’d never fancied Kev back when they were teenagers, she’d been with Samir, and Kev had carried a hopeless torch for Corinna, but the kiss had made her see him in a whole different light. Soft at first, then more urgent, that hand behind her head. When he’d pulled away for a moment, his eyes had stayed on her, full of desire. A chemical, physical rush – of course, it had been over a year since she’d split up with Adrian and there’d been no one since but even so … Within two minutes, they’d been in a cab on the way to his place, like teenagers on the back seat, one part of her laughing at the ridiculousness of it – Kevin Young! – the other part asking how much longer could it take to Bourneville, for God’s sake?
But when they’d reached his bedroom, she’d stopped. Even with all Sasha’s personal things gone, it was so clearly a room designed by a woman. The Liberty print curtains and cushions on the bed, the tall lamps on the bedside tables, the glass bowl on the chest of drawers – there was no way Kev had chosen them and yet he’d kept it all: it had been three years since Sasha had walked out. As he’d unbuttoned her shirt, large fingers surprisingly deft, Robin had been filled with a sudden pathos for him, this bear-like man left alone in the house where he’d once lived with his wife and daughters.
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