by Rob McCarthy
The silence hung in the room and Noble briefly tasted a little vodka again, or maybe it was just acid on the back of her throat. She was afraid now. Afraid that she’d fucked up. Fairweather looked over at Marsden again, who nodded. He leant forward, folded his arms.
‘We’ve been running the background on James Lahiri. Well, Louisa’s team has. It turns out that after Kent got wounded, Lahiri decided to go back to Afghanistan for a second tour, during which time his wife, Alice, had an affair. Would you like to take a wild guess at who that affair was with?’
Noble threw herself back in her chair with such force it almost toppled, and used all of her restraint to avoid swearing. In retrospect, there had been signs. The way Harry had talked about Lahiri had been distant, his grief conflicted – because he’d fucked up their friendship long before Solomon Idris had walked into the picture.
Fairweather was still talking.
‘I take it from the expression on your face that this is a surprise to you, Frankie? He’d kept it from you, hadn’t he?’
‘If I’d shagged my best mate’s wife, then I wouldn’t broadcast it either, sir.’
‘Especially not to someone I was hoping to get into bed,’ Marsden said.
Noble rolled her eyes slowly over to Marsden, wondering whether she knew what had happened in the hotel room or was just winging it. That was the trouble with working with detectives. Very little remained private, however hard you tried.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You know what I meant, Frankie,’ Marsden said. ‘You spent the night in his bedroom.’
‘I was armed,’ Noble objected. ‘I was protecting him.’
‘Really?’ said Marsden. ‘And did you fuck him, as well?’
Noble looked at her, wondering whether an open-handed slap or a rabbit punch would be the best approach. She wanted to leave a sting, but not a mark. Noble knew what the dynamic was now. Marsden was calling the shots, Fairweather a mere attack dog.
‘Yes,’ she said through gritted teeth. Fairweather shook his head in disgust.
‘Do I need to tell you how grave a breach of trust it is to have sexual relations with a witness in a murder investigation?’ he said.
‘He’s not a witness,’ said Noble. ‘He’s a colleague.’
‘Come off it, Frankie,’ said Marsden. ‘He’s a witness to a murder now. The only witness, I might add, given that our Bulgarian friend can’t remember a single thing. So I think we need to go back to square one here.’
‘What do you mean, go back to square one?’
‘I think we need to bring Dr Kent in for questioning and examine his story. We need to look at the physical evidence surrounding the South Dock crime scene and see if it matches up with his version of events.’
‘We already did,’ said Fairweather, turning to Marsden. ‘Louisa, your team asked him about the nature of his friendship with Lahiri. He didn’t mention the affair once. In my book, that’s attempting to pervert the course.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Noble said.
‘He had a motive. He was at the crime scene, and he’s done his best to remain involved in the investigation and potentially direct it away from himself. That makes him a suspect. In fact, it makes him the most likely suspect.’
There were two types of detectives. Some, like Fairweather, like Louisa Marsden, were calculators: they worked on facts alone, critically analysing everything they saw, going on balances of probabilities. Noble was the other kind, like Jack had been, like he’d taught her to be. She judged people, she went on her instinct. Harry Kent was a good man. The light still shone in his eyes, however mortally wounded his life was. She tried to switch off the emotion, to talk in facts. Turned to Marsden, knowing it would piss off Fairweather.
‘Ma’am, we know the gun is the same as the one from the takeaway. And he sure as hell didn’t fire it then.’
‘So he’s working with someone,’ said Marsden. ‘Christ, maybe he’s the one behind the camera in that video. Maybe he’s been pulling the strings all along.’
‘We only have that video because of him!’ Noble protested. ‘You haven’t thought this through at all, have you?’
‘Then it’s a cover,’ Fairweather said. ‘He’s wanted to kill Lahiri for ages. He found out about Idris and the abuse, and thought it was the perfect opportunity. Or, he found out about the abuse and decided to dole out the punishment himself.’
Noble shook her head vigorously. Opened her mouth to protest but Marsden cut her off.
‘Last night I went to see the guy they’d both trained under – he’s in some hospice thing down in Kingston. According to him, the sun shone out of Lahiri’s arse. Kent was good, but he was only good. Never brilliant. Kent managed to get himself wounded, his boss ended up paralysed on the battlefield, but James Lahiri comes home with a medal. Kent’s lived in this guy’s shadow for most of his life, so he gets his own back, takes his wife away. But then she pisses off to New Zealand. And finally he’s snapped.’
Noble listened to the theory and saw about seven holes, but decided to plump with the largest.
‘Oh, come off it, that’s ridiculous. There’s no way in hell he could have predicted we’d call him to the takeaway with Idris.’
‘But what if he did?’ said Fairweather. ‘Because he knew it’d be the perfect alibi. He got his accomplice to fire the gun on Sunday night, then he took it off him and went to do in Lahiri. The gun’s probably in the river, we’d never be able to dredge that marina. Don’t you think it’s convenient that he just happened to be on his way there when Lahiri died?’
‘It’s not convenient at all,’ Noble said. ‘The shooter might have been following Harry for all we know. They attacked him Monday night.’
‘So he says,’ said Marsden.
‘There’s CCTV, for fuck’s sake!’ Noble said, turning to Fairweather. ‘Let’s imagine, for one crazy fucking second, that you’re right, and Harry did have an accomplice who fired that shot at Wyndham Court. Why risk going to the boat at all? Why not get his accomplice to do it?’
‘You’ve worked the murder squad, Frankie,’ Marsden said. ‘You’re not stupid. You must’ve seen murders motivated by simple jealousy. He had to do it himself. Every day of his pitiful life since he met Lahiri, the bastard did everything he did, but better. He needed to look him in the eyes and pull the trigger.’
Noble refused to believe it. She remembered the fire in Harry’s eyes, the passion, as he’d spoken about Solomon Idris, about Keisha Best, about their stories. That hadn’t been an act.
‘But he didn’t do it,’ she said. ‘He didn’t fucking do it, and you know it!’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Marsden. ‘But I’m not satisfied we can eliminate Harry Kent without knowing exactly what went on between him and Lahiri. So I want him in for questioning. I’ve sent two officers to pick him up.’
‘Under caution?’ said Noble. They sure as hell didn’t have enough to pick him up on suspicion of murder, whatever bullshit case they thought they could build.
‘Ideally, yes,’ Marsden said. ‘But if he refuses, I’ll have uniform arrest him on a common-law perverting the course charge. I’ll direct the interview myself, but I want you in the window, right next to me. If even one thing he says differs from what he’s told you, he’s had it.’
The rage inside her was building like smoke up a chimney, and she longed for her skin and face to glow again. How long had it been without a drink? Ten minutes, maybe?
‘With respect, ma’am, this is a gross waste of time during a vital phase of the investigation. Have you forgotten what we all sat through this morning? Somebody is out there drugging teenagers and raping them. That’s what this case is about. Solomon Idris, Keisha Best, and what was happening to them. And how James Lahiri connects to it all. Bringing Harry in would be a fishing trip, that’s all.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Marsden. ‘But I’m going to eliminate the only person we can place at our crime scene. I’m in
the process of applying for a search warrant for his home. And if you don’t cooperate, then you’re obstructing, and that’s grounds for a disciplinary complaint.’
She smiled, venomously. Noble decided on the rabbit punch, and slipped her hands underneath her thighs. Fairweather turned the knife.
‘I suspect that any such complaint would receive significant sympathy.’
Noble stood up.
‘He should be with us in an hour,’ Marsden called after her. ‘We’ll do him in Room Three; they’ve had the heating off all morning.’
‘This man has just lost his best friend!’ Noble yelled. Marsden merely smiled and shook her head, and Noble headed for the door. She had to get back to her car. A chain-smoke and a few more fingers, and a phone call to Wilson to form a plan. They might go for Harry, but he would fight them off easily enough. If Marsden was going to fuck up this investigation, though, then Noble owed it to Solomon, Keisha and Lahiri to make sure that someone went after the real monsters.
She was almost out of the door when Fairweather blocked it.
‘It’s such a shame,’ he said quietly. ‘You had such potential. Having sex with him was an oversight, but letting it cloud your judgement, that’s unforgivable.’
Noble said nothing, moved forward, but Fairweather stayed put, his breath humid by her ear.
‘You should have walked after what happened in Finsbury,’ he grunted.‘You shouldn’t even be a police officer, let alone a DI. And now you’ve fucked a witness. I’ll have you, Noble, you mark my words.’
‘Get out of my way,’ Noble said. ‘Sir.’
Fairweather remained still and made a tutting noise. ‘Dear me,’ he said. ‘If Jack could see you now . . .’
Noble slapped him. Hard. He went down, swearing, and for a brief second she imagined drawing her gun and driving it into his temple, just to watch his face as he wondered whether she’d do it or not. But instead she levered past him with her knee, and shouted back to Marsden.
‘I’ll be in my car,’ she said. ‘Ma’am. Call me when I’m needed.’
From A&E, Harry walked down the hill into Camberwell, retracing the route he’d taken on Sunday night, sirens echoing off the buildings. There were always sirens, he thought, if you tuned your ears to the sounds of this part of the city. They made him think of the boat last night, and he tried to count cars, or look in the shop windows, to get the memory out of his head. Every so often, he could still taste the dock water. Even the cold reminded him. On the way, he rang the hospital switchboard and asked to be put through to Dr Wynn-Jones at the mortuary.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Dr Kent. We spoke on Monday.’
‘Yes?’
Her office was quiet.
‘I can’t talk much now,’ Harry said. ‘But I thought you should know. You were right about Keisha Best. She was being sexually abused. The police have it on video. They’re launching a full investigation.’
There was a heavy breath on the other end of the line, and Harry wondered how she felt. Vindicated, because she was right, and upset, because she wished she was wrong.
‘Thanks for letting me know,’ she said. ‘If there’s anything else I can do, be in touch.’
Harry hung up and made the rest of the journey to Burgess Park Practice at a jog. The surgery was a good few streets away from the park it was named for, sitting between two pre-war terraces, a building site and an old church with a stripped roof and plywood in place of stained glass. It was a modern, angular building, not unlike the Albany Road Academy, automatic doors set into sand-coloured concrete pillars. When he entered, the clinical smell of alcohol gel filled his nose, signs directing him to a touch-screen console to book himself in. He proceeded to the desk.
‘Is Dr Whitacre with a patient?’ he said.
The receptionist looked up slowly.
‘Dr Whitacre’s all booked,’ she said. ‘He’s teaching medical students.’
‘Great,’ said Harry. ‘I’ll surprise him.’
He walked down the corridor towards the doctors’ rooms. A set of stairs headed up to the first floor, a column of nameplates above it. Dr James Lahiri, third from the top. Dr Duncan Whitacre, two beneath. Harry headed up the stairs, leaving damp footprints on the carpet. At the top, a man with a drooping face held the door open for him, a letter in his hand. Bell’s palsy, Harry thought. On his way to A&E for some steroids.
Harry walked past Lahiri’s office, and spotted the plastic tuft of blue-and-white police tape still caught in the door. Someone from Homicide & Serious must have been around earlier to search it. He wondered what they would have seen: Lahiri was fastidiously tidy, had been since boarding school, so it wouldn’t have taken long. He stood and stared at the door for a while. On the boat, Lahiri had said, I went straight to Whitacre, and he said he’d sort it. Had that been part of the deception? Whitacre had told Lahiri it was just about cannabis, when actually the things he had been paying Idris to keep quiet about might have been far worse. And he remembered the first time they’d met, how Whitacre had been so keen to cooperate with the investigation, his personal interest almost unusual, overcompensating.
‘Shit,’ Harry whispered.
Whitacre had been on the ICU after the Monday morning ward round. He could have been there from half past seven, made the change on the system. He might well know Lahiri’s log-in and password, if he used the same password on the practice network.
A text from Noble.
Where are you?
Harry told her. Then he moved down the corridor to Whitacre’s consulting room, and kicked in the door.
Whitacre was slouched forward, his demeanour far removed from the demagogical passion Harry remembered from the assembly. He was at his desk, his shirt open at the collar, his cuffs halfway up his forearms, his red eyes familiar to Harry from the mirrors he’d looked in that day. The two medical students, both in the uniform of chinos, striped shirt, stethoscope and crumpled logbook, turned to face him, their faces terrified.
‘Harry,’ Whitacre said, standing slowly. ‘Did you want to talk? We could step outside if you—’
‘Let’s talk here,’ Harry said. ‘And now.’ He turned to the medical students. ‘What are you guys? Third-year?’
They nodded fervently. Behind his desk, Whitacre ground his teeth together, sipping water from a glass, running a hand through his beard. Harry could tell he was getting to him, that Whitacre had no idea what he was going to do next.
‘You’ll do the SJT soon, so here’s a scenario,’ he said. ‘Professional ethics. You’re a GP. A patient threatens to talk to the press about a controversial treatment. What would the consequences be if that GP paid them money to stop them from telling—’
‘That’s enough!’ Whitacre bellowed, turning to the students. ‘Why don’t you two make yourselves scarce. Er, we’ll catch up next week.’
The students shuffled around Harry and headed for the door. The silence grew and swallowed the room. Harry looked across Whitacre’s desk. Photographs of his sons, the resemblance striking; one in a fireman’s uniform, another in a conservatory on a sunny day, holding an infant. A snow globe with a diorama of the leaning tower of Pisa. One snap of a younger Whitacre, holding hands with a long-haired woman, palm trees behind them. Harry thought about the crime-scene tape outside Lahiri’s consulting room, and wondered what knick-knacks would have been on his desk. Photographs of the wife who’d left him, or the friends who’d betrayed him.
It struck Harry then how alone James had been, how those now grieving in the wake of his death were those who’d abandoned him in life. He felt the pain rise up in his chest again and sink into his stomach. He’d never get to make that up to him. But those thoughts, and others, could be dealt with later. His business now was in this room, with the man in front of him.
‘Well?’ Whitacre said.
Even with his shocked, haunted face, he still looked like a cartoon of a family doctor – had the right body language, the good habits that were
so ingrained. Leg crossed on the opposite knee, fingers clasped together, body leant forwards.
‘You were prescribing cannabis to Solomon Idris,’ Harry said. ‘Among others.’
Whitacre’s face hardened and he rose from the chair.
‘Are you here on police business?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Harry.
‘So why the hell do you care about that?’ Whitacre spat. ‘That, that . . . stuff. It pales into insignificance. A friend is dead. Killed for no good reason.’
‘You’re wrong there,’ Harry said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Whitacre, red eyed.
‘He wasn’t killed for no good reason,’ Harry said. ‘He was killed because he knew something that somebody wanted to keep quiet. Something about Solomon Idris. That’s why he died, and that’s why I’m here.’
It took Whitacre a good few seconds of soundlessly opening and closing his mouth to process the words. ‘Are you accusing me of something, Dr Kent?’
‘Not yet,’ said Harry. ‘Now tell me about the weed.’
Whitacre sank back into his chair.
‘It’s a harm reduction strategy. Most of these kids are going to smoke cannabis, whatever we do or tell them. Gang rehabilitation is all about reducing the number of contacts between the patient and their old life, and if they’re going to their old gang to buy drugs, then that increases their exposure to the people likely to draw them back into their old lifestyle. If we prescribe it to them, they don’t have to be exposed to those environments. Simple. If it was heroin, we’d give them methadone, which is Christ knows how much more harmful.’
‘Right,’ said Harry. ‘If you’re so proud of it, why keep it a secret?’
‘It’s not a secret!’ Whitacre protested. ‘We ran the whole thing past the Home Office – we had to, so we could get access to the drugs. Anyone who files a Freedom of Information request can find out all about it.’
‘But you still paid off Solomon Idris when he threatened to tell the papers about it?’
