by Ian Mayfield
Nina recoiled, as though a spider had leapt out at her. For an uncertain time she stood glued to the spot, shivering. Tearing herself free, she plummeted downstairs, snatched her jacket from the hatstand and left, slamming the door so hard she saw the porch shake. Outside it was starting to rain. At the car she stopped, hunched, unable to keep hold of the keys long enough to get in. No, she couldn’t trust herself to drive.
There was a sound behind her, someone opening the front door.
She ran.
Sandra Jones, returning home from babysitting for a friend, drew her jacket up over her head and dashed from the car to her front door, shoes splashing in the deluge. Bed and cocoa, here I come, she thought happily, heaving a sigh of relief as she reached the shelter of the porch.
Neil was in the sitting room, watching Channel 4. At the sound of her entry he looked up. ‘Nina’s not with you, is she?’
‘No. Why should Nina be with me?’
‘According to Paul she’s disappeared.’
‘Fucking pissing down out there.’ Sandra flopped into an armchair, kicking off her shoes. ‘What d’you mean, disappeared?’
‘Her mum rang earlier on,’ Neil said. ‘Apparently she’d called to say she’d be home early because her obbo had been called off.’ He smiled self-mockingly, the way he always did when he managed to slip a piece of police jargon into the conversation. ‘They went out to play bridge and when they got home at half ten Nina wasn’t there.’
‘Well, maybe another job came up. Mrs T’s being daft. Nina’s what, thirty? How can she go missing from her own - ?’ A sudden pang lanced through her. Before she could stop herself she said, ‘I knew it!’
‘Knew what?’ Neil looked blank.
She sat upright and looked across the room at her handbag where she’d tossed it on the floor by the door. Her mobile was in there. ‘I hope she’s OK.’
‘Changed your tune all of a sudden.’
She was about to give him a mouthful when the doorbell rang.
Nina Tyminski stood in the porch, umbrella-less and very wet. There was an expression of pain on her face, a ghastly smile that wanted to be a tragic mask.
‘What the bloody hell happened to you?’ Sandra said, relief disguised as annoyance.
‘Been to see a film...’ Nina seemed about to burst into tears. Suddenly her features set into an attitude of stern, pale composure. She said, ‘Can I come in?’
Sandra stood aside.
Neil, holding a towel, met them at the top of the stairs. He handed it to his wife and said, ‘I’ll be in the bedroom watching telly if you want me.’
‘OK,’ Sandra nodded, flashing him a smile. Whatever his many failings, her Neil did have a knack for knowing when his presence was not required.
She sat Nina down in his warm, vacated chair and went to make the promised cocoa (laced with rum). When she came back Nina had wrapped the towel in a turban round her bedraggled head. She took the hot mug and allowed Sandra to take a cold hand between hers.
‘Right,’ Sandra said. ‘What’s the bastard done?’
Saturday
A large photo of the scene in the bedroom had been tacked to the board. The gruesome graffiti stood out in lurid colour on the freshly-printed image. Sophia had pulled three members of the team in. They all had copies of the surveillance photo of Edward Porter.
‘The next door neighbour, Elizabeth Brownlie,’ Sophia was saying, ‘has now positively identified Porter from this photo as the man who called at Paragon Road on Thursday looking for Debbie. Even more so now, we need to locate him.’ The others stole a glance at Kim, but she was looking ahead attentively. ‘That is red semi-gloss,’ Sophia said, pre-empting any comments. ‘This is not.’ Beside the photo was another, close-up, of the brown stain on the mattress. ‘It’s five centimetres across and soaked in to a depth of four centimetres. Lambeth have confirmed it is human blood, and the same group as Debbie Clarke’s. CSI also retrieved a number of blonde hairs from the mattress which match Debbie’s colour; they’ll be able to confirm whether they’re hers by Monday.’
‘How soon before we get the DNA on the blood?’ Kim asked.
‘There we have a slight problem. It seems their digital profiling server has gone on the blink.’ There were groans. ‘As our sample’s listed as a priority they’ve sent it to LCG in Oxfordshire for analysis, but it could take anything up to a week.’
‘That’s all the blood there was?’ Helen Wallace said.
‘That was it,’ Sophia answered with a nod. ‘Which fact gives us some small hope. However, we now have to bear in mind the very real possibility we could be looking at a second murder. These pictures here,’ her finger swept up to the board again, ‘are of twelve short lengths of nylon clothes line, found on the floor near all four legs of the bed. The lengths vary from eight to thirty-one centimetres. There are human epithelials embedded in the fibres, again, DNA as yet undetermined. As you can see, there are some knots. The rope’s been cut in two ways: cleanly, with a sharp-bladed instrument like a craft knife, and elsewhere more ragged, as if someone was in a hurry or didn’t have the right tool for the job.’
‘The upshot,’ Marie Kirtland interrupted her, ‘is Debbie was tied up?’
‘And then cut free.’ Sophia nodded. ‘All of which suggests that whoever tied her wrote that’ - she tapped the picture - ‘and then left her there for Meredith and the others to find.’
‘How do we know Meredith didn’t tie her up himself?’ Larissa Stephenson piped up. She and Jeff Wetherby were also in today, but on other business.
Before Sophia could reply Kim had rounded on Lucky. ‘Meredith, the committed leftie and member of an anti-racist pressure group, write “nigger lover” on a wall? Not very likely, is it?’
Lucky looked crushed. ‘No, sarge.’
‘Returning to the point,’ Sophia interjected, ‘in all likelihood that blood didn’t get onto the mattress because Debbie had a nosebleed. She was injured in some way - whether fatally or not, we can’t tell. The fact is Porter knew where to find her, and what he can do once he can do again. If Debbie isn’t dead, she’s in terrible danger. We have to get to her before Porter does. Or better still, get to Porter.’
Subdued muttering suggested her audience thought this was easier said than done.
‘NCIS have come up with a likely list of far right gorillas for us to harass,’ she said. ‘As we all know, these political encounters can go pear-shaped quite quickly, so we need to be extra careful. In case you were wondering, this is why I asked both the sergeants to give up part of their weekend. And I’ve arranged some TSG backup in case things get ugly.’
‘Personal bodyguards,’ Marie quipped.
‘One more thing,’ Sophia said. ‘I’m assured Porter had no idea the Flying Squad were monitoring him. Hopefully he’s got no reason to think we’re on his tail either. Again, tread carefully. If he gets a whiff of us he’s likely to go to ground so deep we’ll never dig him out again. Remember, assume Debbie’s alive, and don’t endanger her.’
‘Bog all chance of that,’ Kim muttered to Marie a few moments later as they left the room.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You know like sometimes you walk onto a crime scene and you get a sort of vibe from it?’
Marie nodded.
‘I did history A Level,’ Kim said, ‘and in the Middle Ages when they caught a traitor, after they executed him they used to stick his head on a pole on London Bridge as a warning to others.’
‘Charming.’
‘That room,’ Kim said simply, ‘felt like that.’
It was a surprise to meet Nina Tyminski coming in through the back door as they were on their way out. She looked tired, and had on a blue sweatshirt Kim seemed to remember Sandra wearing on occasion. She stopped Kim with a hand on her arm. ‘What happened about Andrew Clarke?’
‘Clothes are Debbie’s,’ Kim said.
‘No, I mean the obbo. Is it back on?’
‘My turn tonight
,’ Kim said, trying to be magnanimous.
‘I don’t mind,’ Nina said. ‘Fair’s fair. Why should I get off?’
‘OK, if you’re that keen.’ Kim grinned. ‘One free evening enough for you, yeah?’
‘Does everybody know?’
Kim was not prepared for being yelled at, nor for the look of undisguised rage that contorted Nina’s face. Involuntarily, she took a step back. Nina pushed past and scuttled off at top speed. Perplexed, Kim looked at Marie.
‘I’m saying nothing,’ Marie said.
Kim’s mobile rang. She had a brief conversation and then looked up at Marie. ‘Change of plan,’ she said. ‘You’re gonna be riding shotgun with Sophia today.’
‘Oh, goody. How come?’
‘She’s just had Charing Cross on the blower.’ Kim smiled. ‘Guess what the cat dragged in?’
Philip Meredith had been arrested in Covent Garden the previous evening for being drunk and disorderly. When brought to Charing Cross police station he’d been forthcoming on only two points: his name, and his being of no fixed abode. So forthcoming about his name had he been that he’d attracted the attention of a DC Carter, who was next in the queue with his prisoner, and who read his bulletins assiduously. Meredith became less voluble about his homelessness when confronted with fingerprints taken from a flat in Paragon Road, E8, which matched his own. Told the significance of this fact, he’d since been very quiet; to quote the custody sergeant, pacing his cell so frequently the walls were getting dizzy.
His appearance in the interview room made Sophia and Marie groan inwardly. He was as white as a fresh roll of toilet paper but evidently thought he should have been born in Montego Bay. Gorgonlike red-blond dreads seethed out from beneath a red, yellow and green knitted hat that owed less to religious adherence than a desire to keep warm. There was a Bob Marley tattoo on the inside of his left forearm. He’d evidently made full use of police hospitality and gave off a strong smell of carbolic soap. Seeing two women, his eyes gleamed in anticipation of an easy ride. ‘Oh, what’s this?’
‘Sit down.’ Carter pointed to a chair. Meredith sat.
‘Morning, Mr Meredith,’ Sophia said, expressionless. ‘I’m DCI Beadle, this is DC Kirtland. We’re from the Special Crime Unit at Croydon.’
‘Come a long way to fit me up,’ Meredith said. Glancing at the recorder, he added, ‘You want to turn that thing on? I’ve got things to say.’
‘Knock it off, Philip,’ Carter said wearily.
‘I’ve been in here eleven hours and twelve minutes,’ Meredith said, without any apparent frame of reference. ‘Now you either charge me or I walk out of here and talk to a solicitor about unlawful detention.’
‘You didn’t seem too keen to talk to one last night, when you had a nice warm cell to kip in,’ Carter remarked.
‘That was then.’
Sophia said, ‘I’d like to talk to you about Debbie Clarke.’
‘Who?’
‘A missing witness to a serious crime.’
‘What makes you think I know anything?’
‘She was last seen at the squat in Hackney where your prints were found.’
Meredith pressed his lips together. He had a plaster on his left hand at the base of the index finger. It was coming unstuck and he was toying with it, as if unsure whether to peel it off or try to stick it back down.
‘You’re quite welcome to have a solicitor present if you want one.’
‘Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we, lady?’ he said. If it was meant to sound ominous, they were unmoved.
‘We’ve been hearing good things about you,’ Sophia said. ‘Helping the old lady next door with her washing. She was most grateful.’
‘I’m a real saint.’
‘Mrs Brownlie, isn’t it? The neighbour?’
‘If that’s what she told you.’
‘She also told us Debbie turned up there last Tuesday evening, and that you let her in.’
‘Now why would I let a complete stranger in?’
‘No stranger, Philip.’ Sophia was determined that the more obstinate Meredith became, the less she was going to stand for it. ‘She’s a member of an activist organization called Justice for Mark Watkins. So are you. We understand you get on quite well.’
‘Who says?’
‘Luke Benton.’ Her china blue eyes studied him. ‘Does that name mean anything to you?’
He shrugged.
‘Don’t keep up with the news, Philip?’
‘Yeah, well,’ he snapped, ‘you can’t usually hear much when you’re watching through the window outside Curry’s.’
‘What about Billy Scofield?’
‘Who?’
‘Come on, Philip. You’re pals. You’ve been nicked together about fifteen times. You’re well known. Plus the fact his prints were at the squat as well.’
‘You’re talking horse shit, lady. Billy’s cool.’
‘Why? Because he wouldn’t be seen dead helping us?’ Giving him no time to react, she leaned forward. ‘Time to stop messing about, Philip. The act isn’t impressing anyone.’
‘If you’re gonna frame me for killing this Debbie what’s her name - ’
‘Did you?’
‘Fucking no.’
‘Then we won’t put you in the frame.’
‘What else do I get, lady?’
‘Indulgence.’ And if he called her lady once more, she decided, he was risking even that.
‘Pardon?’
‘Who told you Debbie Clarke was dead?’
‘You did.’
‘No, I said she was missing.’
Phil Meredith was suddenly a different person, a contrite person. ‘Look, I didn’t kill her.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No.’
‘No, you did nothing or no, you’re not telling the truth?’
‘I didn’t kill no-one. Neither did Billy or Jayne or anyone else who was at the squat.’
She watched him. He looked as if he were about to suffocate.
‘I think,’ she said, ‘before going any further, we could all do with a cuppa. Philip?’
He peered at her hopefully, but he wasn’t off the hook. He slumped and nodded. Sophia turned to Marie, who resisted the urge to roll her eyes heavenwards.
‘I’ll show you where the canteen is,’ DC Carter said, getting up with her.
Sophia let Meredith get his breath back. ‘OK, Philip,’ she said, ‘time to indulge you. I’m not going to ask you yet about your relationship with Debbie, what you got her to do for you or whether you were giving her one. I’m going to tell you what I think happened. I think she turned up at the squat on Tuesday looking for sanctuary. I think you took her in, told her to keep her head down and went about your normal business. You, and Billy, and this Jayne, went out as usual doing whatever it is you do. Leaving Debbie alone in the flat.’ As she talked, she picked up her bag and took from it a photograph of the bedroom at Paragon Road as Kim and Marie had found it. ‘I think you came back on Thursday night or yesterday morning to this.’
She let him study the scene, which although constrained by the dimensions of the photo had as strong an impact as the real thing.
‘In a nutshell,’ she went on, ‘I think the rest of the story is that you panicked, decamped en masse and split up. I doubt you even know where Billy and Jayne are at the moment.’
Meredith handed the photo back and shook his head.
‘Which brings me to the one gap in my story,’ Sophia said. ‘We know Debbie was at the squat. The unanswered question is whether she was still there when you came back.’
‘She wasn’t.’
‘So what made you all leave in such a hurry?’
‘Wouldn’t you?’ He pointed wildly at the photo. ‘Ratty old squat, no-one’s supposed to know you’re there?’
‘Billy Scofield’s black, isn’t he?’
‘Mixed race. What’s that got to do wit
h it?’
‘Well, a squat isn’t the most difficult place to break into, is it? Say if a bunch of racist yobbos from the estate decide to drop by and leave their calling card, what’s it to you?’
‘Yeah, but that and the blood - ’
‘It’s a dribble,’ she cut across him. ‘You can’t be squeamish, surely, not with what you see on the streets every day.’
He looked puzzled, as if this wasn’t what he’d expected her to say. He shrugged. ‘It was enough.’
The door opened and DC Carter returned, alone. He wore a hangdog expression which suggested, in Sophia’s jaundiced experience, that he’d tried it on with Marie and been rebuffed.
‘All right, Philip. What did Debbie tell you?’
Meredith picked at his plaster for a moment, composing his words. ‘I joined Justice for Mark Watkins about a year ago.’
‘Meaning you infiltrated them?’
‘Yeah, all right, Frau Kapitän,’ he said acidly. ‘Debbie started coming with this black kid a few weeks after. Wasn’t shy about sharing her opinions, sounded promising.’
‘As a recruit?’
This time he ignored her cynical interpretation. ‘I got talking to her. She wanted to do something concrete. Said she could get in with the Nazis, she’d been following some of their forums online and she knew a few names she could drop. I talked to my lot and they reckoned they could use her as an infiltrator.’ He paused, smirking, pleased at having thrown the word back at his interrogator. ‘So that’s what they did. Took her, trained her up, got her enrolled as a junior member of the BNP.’
‘And what happened?’
‘She went along to their meetings, joined their discussion boards, kept her ear to the ground, communicated what she heard back to me.’
Sophia stared at him, her expression sphinxlike. It evidently didn’t matter to Meredith or his comrades that sooner or later someone on the far right was going to tumble to it being a bit odd one of their youths being openly involved with an anti-racist group and going out with a black man whose family she babysat for.
She said, ‘Did you have any idea what was going on before she turned up at the squat?’
