The body of a man of about forty years of age lay on the bare boards a little way from her. His face and chest area, from what Anna could see, had taken the impact of the bullets. He was lying facedown, his arms spread out in front of him. He was not some junkie; he was, in fact, exceptionally well dressed in a smart suit. His white shirt, now covered in bloodstains, looked as if it had been pristine, and he wore gold cuff links. Even his shoes were classy loafers.
Anna stepped over the dead man and past forensic, who were checking out the blood spattering. Filthy blankets and sleeping bags were arranged against the walls. A fire had been built in the center of the room; there was a disposable barbecue with burned-out coals. Used takeaway cartons, bottles, and cans were also strewn around.
She gingerly sidestepped the junk to reach an officer who was testing for prints around a grimy window. Anna peered out and saw a balcony below—so someone could escape that way, if they had a head for heights and were stoned enough to play at Spider-Man.
“What went down here?” she asked.
He stopped dusting and looked at her over his mask. “Maybe a drug deal that went wrong. Victim appeared to have been behind the door, waiting to get served. He took hits to the face and upper chest. We think our shooter maybe got out via the window.”
“He doesn’t look like the usual druggie.”
“No, I know. I think we got an ID. I know the boss took stuff away. They’ll be taking him any minute.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re Anna Travis, right?”
“Yes?”
“Thought so. You were late. Mind if I give you a tip? DCI Cunningham is a real mean bitch. She can make life very unpleasant.”
“Thank you, I’ll take that on board. And you are?”
“Pete Jenkins, with forensics.”
Anna gave him a brittle smile. She had never worked alongside a female boss before and already it did not bode well. She spent as much time as she felt she should at the site, before heading to the incident room at Chalk Farm Police Station. She made copious notes as always and tried, while doing so, not to get in anyone’s way. The station was old-fashioned and rundown. The murder team had taken over the second floor, which had plenty of empty space: it was due to be shut down and a new building had already been earmarked. Until the move, they would entrench themselves in the allocated area. There were several small offices for the detectives; the largest corner office had already been taken by DCI Cunningham. Computers were being set up alongside an incident board, and the clerical staff were organizing desks and phone lines. When Anna asked where she should unpack, she was given the closet next to DCI Cunningham’s office.
The room was only spacious enough for a small desk and a swivel chair that had seen better days. No sooner had Anna taken off her coat, and wiped over the dusty desk with a tissue, than her phone was brought in and connected by a young uniformed officer.
As she took out her laptop, notebooks, and pens, a red-haired detective tapped on the open door. “Hi! I’m Gordon Loach. The boss wants us ready for a briefing in five minutes. There’s coffee and doughnuts in the incident room.”
Anna smiled and stretched out her hand. “DI Anna Travis. Nice to meet you.”
Gordon seemed very young, whether because of his almost orange hair and full complement of freckles, or his rather nervous clammy handshake. “See you in there,” he replied, and he was gone.
Anna peered through the blinds of her small window, which looked out onto the incident room. She watched the room filling up as numerous officers drew out chairs and sat around chatting. She still hadn’t seen anyone she knew—not that she minded. It was just nice to see a friendly or familiar face when starting a new case.
She picked up her notebook and went next door, and sat down with two empty chairs either side of her. No one else sat close. She held her pencil at the ready, coffee and a doughnut beside her. She had just taken a bite when Cunningham’s door banged open and the DCI strode across to stand at the incident board. With her back to the room, she made notes. Then she turned to face everyone.
“Okay, let’s get cracking. First up is the call from a neighbor who lives on the estate. All we know is she heard gunfire, but I want her interviewed again, just to see if she can tell us anything about who might have been dossing down in the dump where the body was discovered.” Cunningham twisted the marker pen in her hand. “We have an ID on the victim, but we need it to be verified and I want this kept quiet until we know the facts. 1 do not—repeat do not—want any press releases until we have that verification. According to ID in his wallet, the dead man is DI Frank Brandon.”
Anna sat bolt upright. She knew Frank Brandon: he had been on the last case she had worked on with Langton.
“Anyone know the victim?” Cunningham asked.
Anna raised her hand. She kept on swallowing to control how shocked she was. Frank of the heavy cologne and weight lifters shoulders; Frank who reckoned he was every woman’s dream; Frank who had at one time made a pass at her … Frank? What in God’s name was he doing in a drug dive?
Cunningham continued. “We will obviously, as soon as a formal identification has taken place, look into what case he was working on.” She looked at Anna coldly. “Did you recognize him?”
“No, ma’am, but he was facedown. It looked like he’d taken the bullets to his head and shoulders.”
“Correct. The top of his head was blown off. We have, I believe, five bullet wounds—two shot through the door, the others we think may have been at point-blank range—but we will wait for ballistic, forensic, and pathology reports for all that.”
Cunningham turned to the board, then back to the waiting officers. “It looks, and I am only saying what I think—we won’t know until we have made more inquiries—as if our victim went to the block of flats to score, was let in the front door and taken into the main room to wait, then for some reason was killed. The killer shot through the reinforced door, then opened it, came out, and shot the victim at point-blank range, to make sure he was dead. Then he must have run back in and escaped out of the window. Right now, though, we have no idea how many people were in that squat. We wait to see if they get anything from the prints.”
Anna listened, as did everyone else. Cunningham’s soft, upper-class tone was at odds with her cold attitude; she did not meet anyone’s eyes, and talked at, rather than to them. She continued to twist the pen in her hands before writing on the board the ID of their victim and a list of the contents of his rather expensive wallet: two photographs, one of a pretty blond woman and another of two small children; along with numerous receipts for dry cleaning, repairs to a BMW, and grocery bills—nothing else.
Anna bit her lip, trying to calculate how long it had been since she had last seen Frank. He had most definitely not, to her knowledge, been married or had children. Could he, in the time she had worked on two
other cases, have met someone, married them, and produced two kids? She doubted it. She put up her hand and mentioned her thought to Cunningham, who nodded.
“Well, we’ll know sooner or later. Anything else?”
Again Anna put up her hand. Cunningham stared at her, her dark brown eyes expressionless.
“The blood spattering, ma’am.”
“What about it?”
“From what I could see, if the victim was shot in the head through the door—”
“Yes?”
“The forensic team were still checking when I left—”
“I am aware of that. Travis.”
“Well, from what I could determine—”
“Get to the point!” Cunningham snapped.
“The wall directly behind the Victim showed only a small spray of blood.”
“So? What do you conclude?”
“Someone could have been standing behind him.”
“Thank you, well observed. We’ll obviously wait, as with everything else, for the scientists to give their report. Anyone else?”
No
one else brought up any developments. By now, it was almost midday and Cunningham, with the duty manager, gave out assignments. Travis was to be accompanied by Gordon Loach to question Mrs. Webster, the woman who had put the call in to the station. As the team broke up, Anna had still not been formally introduced to the main officers leading the inquiry. Cunningham had returned to her office.
Anna and Gordon traveled back to the murder site in a patrol car, with Anna driving. “How long have you been attached to the Murder Squad?” Anna asked from behind the wheel.
Gordon flushed, which wasn’t too difficult; his cheeks seemed to be pinkish all the time. “Two weeks. This is my first time out.” “Ah ..
“To be honest, I’m really sort of unsure what all the procedures are. I mean, I know from training, but being in the thick of it is different.” “Yes.”
“My father was an officer.”
“So was mine.”
“He’s now Deputy Commissioner.”
Anna turned to look at the young man. “Really?”
“What about yours?”
“He was a Detective Inspector, Murder Squad, but he retired. He died five years ago.”
“Oh!” Gordon changed the subject. “What do you think happened?”
“You mean the shooting?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t really say. We always know more when all the tests have been completed.”
“But you think you recognized the victim?”
“No. I said I knew Frank Brandon, who owned the ID card found in the victim’s wallet. I never got a look at the victim’s face.”
“But if it was him, this is serious. I mean, he was a police officer.”
“Correct.”
“So what do you think happened?” the young man repeated.
“As I just said, I don’t really know. Our job, Gordon, is to find out. So, we question the neighbor, see if she has anything we can work on.”
“Right. It’s a terrible shithole, the Warren Estate.”
“Some people don’t have a choice,” Anna said.
“Where do you live?”
She hesitated. “I’ve just moved into a new place over near Tower Bridge.”
“I still live with my mother,” the young man told her. “My parents are separated, long time ago. I want to get a place of my own eventually, but it’s really hard to find anywhere I can afford. I’ve seen a few places, but all out of my league. Was your flat expensive?”
“Very,” she said, sounding more curt than she meant to. “Okay, here we are.”
The forensic teams remained at work. Arc lamps still lit up the dingy
flat and tapes cordoned off” the area. The body must have been removed, as there was no longer an ambulance on standby. Anna and Gordon headed up the stone staircase and branched off” to where there were still residents.
“It’s number 18A,” Gordon said.
“Yes, I know.” Anna walked a little ahead of him until they reached the front door. The paint was fresh, but the letterbox was boarded up; a smashed side window had a piece of board nailed across it. Anna knocked. They waited awhile; she had to knock again, before they heard footsteps.
“Who is it?” came a voice.
“I’m from the police, Mrs. Webster. Detective Inspector Anna Travis.”
Chains were scraped back and the door was inched open. “Have you got identification?”
Anna showed her badge and then gestured to Gordon.” I’m accompanied by Detective Constable Loach.” She stepped away slightly so Mrs. Webster could see Gordon.
The door closed, but then the chain was released and it opened. “Come in,” said Mrs. Webster nervously.
The hallway was neat and clean, with floral carpet and wallpaper, but very narrow. The tiny woman gestured for them to move ahead. “Go into the sitting room, please. It’s on the right.”
“Thank you,” Anna said as she and Gordon entered the first room off the hallway. The flat had the same layout as the drug squat, but that was the only point of comparison. Mrs. Webster’s sitting room was cluttered, with an overstuffed sofa and two chairs in front of a fake coal electric fire. There were numerous cabinets with china and ornaments in them and a large television.
Mrs. Webster had white hair, cut in a neat style rather like the Queen’s. She was wearing a twinset and pearls, a pleated woolen skirt, and stretch stockings over her puffy ankles; fluffy suede slippers encased her feet. “Do you want tea or coffee?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Sit down, please.”
Both Anna and Gordon sat on the easy chairs. “Mrs. Webster, you made the 999 call—“Anna began, then was interrupted.
“Yes, yes, I called the police.”
“Can you tell me exactly what was happening before you put in the call?”
“Well, I’ve said all this before.”
“I know, but 1 just need to go over a few things.”
“I was in bed and I woke up. Well, the sounds woke me up.”
“The sounds?”
“Yes—raised voices and then a sort of loud bang, bang, bang sound. It was so loud, I was worried Jeremy would be woken up.”
“Jeremy?”
“My son. He sleeps in the bedroom at the back of the flat. I’m in the front, but it was so loud.”
“Did it wake him?”
“No. Well, not at first it didn’t, because there was a sort of lull—you know, nothing happening—but by this time, 1 was up.”
“What time was that?”
“It was three-fifteen.”
“So then what happened?”
“I checked on Jeremy and, just as I was closing his door, there was another pop, this time not so loud—then it went pop, pop, again. I see enough TV to know what the sound was: gunfire. So I called the police.”
“Did you leave the flat at all?”
“No, no, I was too scared.”
“Did your son?”
“No, he came in here and sat with me until the police arrived.”
“How old is your son?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just for the record.”
“He’s thirty-four.”
“And he lives here with you?”
“Yes.”
“Is he at home now?”
Mrs. Webster looked toward the closed door and back to Anna. “He’s in his room, “she said carefully.” Is it necessary you talk to him?”
“It is, but let’s just continue with you for now. You called the police?”
“I never set foot out of the front door at night; it’s too risky. I’ve complained that the squatters have moved in and it’s been going on, over and over again. In fact, when I rang 999,1 didn’t think they would take me seriously, because of how many times I’ve called them. There’s needles and filth left on the walkways, and there are still children living here. It’s every night, and most of the day now; they come and they go, these junkies. It’s worse at night, because of the cars and motorbikes, the lights, shining into my windows, and the noise, shouting and screaming. I know two residents called the police because they found a girl doped up and being sick; another time, a boy was found overdosed. It’s like living in a nightmare that never stops.”
Anna let the woman talk on until she seemed to deflate, sighing.
“The people using the flat… did you know any names? Can you describe anyone? Maybe someone you have seen on a regular basis?”
“No, they all look alike—hoods up, gray anoraks. They don’t look at me; they just ignore the existence of anyone else living here. The council have done nothing to help us get rehoused.”
“How many would you say were living in the squat?”
“I couldn’t tell you; they came and they went. Sometimes there were girls but, most times, they were just lads. Late at night the cars would pull up. I think these were bringing the drugs because then it would start, the noise, the banging, the bikes and cars, coming to get whatever they needed.”
“Last night—the night of the shooting—did you notice anything different?”
“No. Like I said, at seven, I shut my front door and I bolt it and I don’t go out. I turn the TV up loud and that’s it.”
“What about your son?”
“He never goes out much.”
“I’m sorry—your son doesn’t go out?”
“Not a lot, unless they come for him.”
“Who comes, Mrs. Webster?”
“The social services. They come and take him for his swimming and then, on Wednesdays, he goes to a special unit at Camden.”
“Is your son ill? I mean, is he disabled?”
“No.”
“I would like to talk to him.”
“He doesn’t know anything.”
“He might.”
“I just don’t want him upset. This has all been very stressful for him, you know. I’ll try and keep him as calm as I can. But when these things happen, he gets very upset. He’s afraid they might come after me because I called the police.”
“Mrs. Webster, I assure you since the shooting, I doubt very much there will be any activity there again.”
“Well, I have to say, since it happened it’s been quiet, apart from all the police, and the neighbors trying to find out what is going on.”
“It must be a very difficult time for you.” Anna closed her notebook and stood up. “May I meet your son now?”
Mrs. Webster glanced at the clock on the mantel and licked her lips. “Jeremy has autism. Sometimes he can be a bit difficult. Other times he’s fine. Can you give me a few minutes?”
Anna nodded and smiled as Mrs. Webster left the room.
“It’s not right, is it?” Gordon said quietly.
Anna looked at him, as if to say. “What isn’t?”
“Forced to live in this place, son dependent on you, having junkies day and night just up the corridor. It’s disgusting.”
“It looks as if the council is making moves to rehouse everyone.”
“In the meantime, they have to put up with junkies and dealers.”
Anna listened: she heard raised voices. Mrs. Webster was trying to persuade her son to dress; he was refusing, as he was watching something on television. They could hear a low, almost growling voice muttering, and Mrs. Webster trying to cajole him.
Deadly Intent Page 3
