And Elliott Prince? The leader? She still couldn’t get her head around that, even if it had no bearing on the investigation. Sometimes human nature just surprised her, the Keyser Söze syndrome.
Sam stopped again. The flame from the lighter illuminated her face. She drew deep on the Marlboro Gold, allowing the smoke to fill her expanding lungs, imagined the nicotine rushing around her veins, held her breath, then slowly let the smoke escape in swirls through her mouth and nose. She knew neither investigation was going to be brought to a swift conclusion.
‘All quiet?’ she said to a passing Community Support Officer astride a bike.
‘Yes ma’am.’
She hated being called ma’am. It made her sound like some old woman from a bygone age. She was much happier with boss, even happier with Sam.
Saturday 19th April 2014
Ed dropped Sue at the Gurdwara at 9.45am. The morning had been a two-fold rarity... a leisurely breakfast and the enjoyment of her company.
While she’d had fresh berries and muesli, he’d devoured the kind of ‘Full English’ that had fuelled the working men in his family for generations: miners, shipyard welders and riveters, sent out with a belly full of bacon, fried eggs, fried potatoes and strong tea.
He parked in the town centre and went for a coffee. No point in going into the office. As soon as Sue had finished at the Gurdwara, he needed to pick her up and hear what Mrs Maan had to say.
He avoided the mass-market coffee shops and went into the Italian, run by the same family for decades. He opened the dark brown door and stepped into the small, cool, dark interior, all deep brown tables and chairs, brown paint on the walls, Antonio had his arms folded on the deep brown counter, back bent, smiling at the customers, a scene unchanged since the first time Ed had gone in more than 30 years ago. Antonio’s white shirt and black apron were as immaculate as always.
‘Ed, how are you today?’ Antonio’s sons had been schooled here, but he still had the accent he arrived with from Sicily a lifetime ago.
‘Good. How are you, Don?’
The nickname, hardly original, had been bestowed in the early 70s, a throwback to the release of The Godfather movie. The affectionate moniker had stuck and now the majority of people didn’t know Antonio’s real name. Before the decade of Slade, Wizard and British Leyland strikes had finished, he’d even changed the name of the café from Antonio’s to Corleone’s.
‘I’m fine, Ed. The usual?’
‘Please,’ Ed said, sitting on one of the tall stools at the counter, feet perched on its crossbar and buttocks planted on the hard, unforgiving wood.
‘One double espresso coming up,’ Antonio told him.
Here the choice was simple... espresso with or without milk, a short drink or a long one. And unlike the endless choices you got at the chains, in Corleone’s it was either pastries or amaretto biscuits.
They discussed football. Antonio was devoted to the national team of his homeland but shared Ed’s passion for Newcastle United.
Ed’s phone vibrated and danced across the counter, the screen telling him the text was from Sue. She was finished.
‘Have to dash, Don.’ The coffee was like a shot of adrenalin.
‘Slow down, Ed,’ Antonio said reaching for the tiny cup. ‘Enjoy the little things. Before you know it the big thing, death, will find you.’
Ed ran a hand over his smooth head and took in Antonio’s jet-black wavy hair, still full and thick at 70 years old. Slow down? Perhaps he had a point. What had his dad once said to him? Nobody lying on their deathbed ever wished they’d spent more time in the office.
Sue was waiting for him on the corner of the street and jumped in the car as soon as he stopped in the middle of the road.
‘How did you get on?’ Ed asked as he pulled away.
‘Hang on, let me get my seat belt on.’
He tried to hide his frustration. He was desperate to discover what Mrs Maan had said and whether it was worth knowing.
‘I’d forgotten how many people go to that place on a morning,’ Sue told him. ‘Anyway, I made an excuse, felt guilty about not being there for a while. Luckily Leela was there so it looked normal. Me and Mrs Maan chatting was just two old neighbours from different generations catching up.’
Ed glanced across at her.
‘Alright, alright, I know,’ Sue sighed. ‘Firstly, she won’t repeat this to anybody and just deny ever saying it if necessary. She saw a car like the one driving up the street yesterday but didn’t say anything because... well you know why.’
‘Community,’ Ed said.
Sue nodded then went on.
‘She didn’t know the driver, a young boy, but she saw Aisha talking to him. It looked like she was putting a bag on to the back seat. Aisha got grabbed from behind, two men attacked the boy and... ’
‘Does she know who they are?’ Ed stopped her.
‘God, are you this impatient at work?’
His head jerked around to face her. ‘I am when people are going round the houses.’
She screamed his name.
He slammed the brakes; rubber screeched against Tarmac, his bumper stopping inches from the rear end of the stationary car in front.
He took a deep breath, told himself to calm down.
Sue pressed her nose against the side window. ‘Watch what you’re doing.’
Ed moved off with the traffic.
The 20 seconds she took before speaking gave Ed enough time to curse his impatience.
‘Yes, she does know them,’ Sue said. ‘Aisha’s brother grabbed her. Her father and the uncle from India, the one who took part in the honour killing... ’
‘She knew about that?’ Ed broke in again.
Sue gave him a look.
‘Come on, Ed, just because the police don’t know… anyway, she says they beat up the young boy. Then the father and brother dragged Aisha home. The boy, who looked unconscious, was thrown on to the back seat and driven away by the uncle.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sam rubbed eyes that stung through lack of sleep and blinked as the email forwarded by Bev Summers from DC Welch at Devon and Cornwall Constabulary came into focus.
DC Summers.
Re Ford Fiesta, registered to Sukhvinder Sahota
Sam skimmed over the details of the vehicle’s VIN plate and which body parts were missing.
The car was discovered yesterday in a lock-up garage near Plymouth Hoe. This garage was subject of an ongoing operation into organised car theft.
Many parts of the car are missing – this garage is believed to be a chop-shop.
The front windscreen and interior rear-view mirror are still on the car. There are a number of fingerprints on the inside of the windscreen and two partial prints on the mirror. All prints are unidentified.
A witness did see a young Asian male drive the vehicle into the garage. This witness is confident of identifying the male. For the time being, Devon and Cornwall Police do not wish to reveal the identity of this witness.
Obviously a CHIS, Sam guessed.
I will forward a statement covering the recovery of the vehicle.
She answered the desk phone.
‘It’s Jill Carver.’
Brusque as ever, Sam thought.
‘What was going on last night? My clients are extremely concerned about the impact a street full of police officers had on their family life, their private life. You do remember the Human Rights Act, Chief Inspector, Article 8, Right to a Private and Family Life?’
Sam took a silent breath.
‘I’d have thought they would be pleased we’re still putting resources into their daughter’s disappearance,’ she said. ‘It seems strange to me that your client and his son last night expressed their anger personally and clearly they’ve expressed it to you. Why don’t they want us to do our jobs? Is there something they’re not telling us?’
Jill Carver’s voice was sharp and clipped.
‘You know as well as I do there
have been suggestions of honour killing in the media,’ she said. ‘The police have done nothing to stop them.’
Sam reminded Carver the police had no part in censuring the Press.
‘It’s called freedom of speech, the freedom of the Press... you know, free from state intrusion, which includes the police,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll find that’s Article 10.’
The silence was loaded, the voice that broke it crypt cold.
‘You’re skating on thin ice, Inspector.’
Another one wanting to demote me. Do they think I’m that hung up on rank that I’m bothered by their games?
Sam didn’t respond. This time it was Jill Carver faced with silence.
‘My clients feel that they are being harassed, which in turn is causing them distress,’ she said finally. ‘They are respected members of their community and these suggestions around honour crimes are ill-informed and without a shred of substance or foundation.’
Sam let that hang for long seconds before she spoke again.
‘Neither I, nor any other police officer, has publicly said this is an honour crime. Nobody from Eastern Police has referred to it as anything other than a missing-from-home inquiry. Now is there anything I can help you with?’
Carver switched tack.
‘Has your investigation discovered anything new?’
‘We are following a number of lines of enquiry,’ Sam trotted out the time-honoured answer. ‘When we have any news, your clients will be the first to know.’
Sam could almost feel Carver’s anger seep like sea fret from the receiver.
‘You are creating smoke screens, Inspector, smoke screens behind which you are trying to hide your own inadequacies. You have not heard the last of this.’
Sam kept the receiver in her hand after Carver disconnected, dialled the HOLMES room and asked for Bev to come into her office.
‘I’ve read your email,’ she told her. ‘Do you think they’re protecting a CHIS?’
Bev closed the door and sat down.
‘He was very cagey when I spoke to him on the phone,' she told Sam. ‘He wouldn’t confirm it was an informant. I wouldn’t expect him to confirm in an email but on the phone?’
‘What do you think then?’
‘I got the feeling it was an undercover cop,’ Bev said.
Sam gave that some thought. It would explain why Devon and Cornwall were keeping the identity secret. She doubted even DC Welch would know.
‘Okay, it changes nothing,' she said. ‘We’ve still got somebody who could identify who drove the car into the garage and the good thing, if it is a UC, I’m a lot happier with the ‘it’s not Sukhi’ identification. I’ll get our Director of Intelligence to call theirs… so, Jack Goddard.’
‘And perhaps Aaron Leech,’ Bev said.
‘I know,’ Sam told her. ‘I want victimologies doing for every drowner. The usual... associates, habits, places they visit, social media. Get the information on an analytical chart. Let’s see if there are any common denominators. We already know Jack and Aaron were on the ‘hashtag’ photograph. See if the others are somehow linked.’
‘Will do,’ Bev said, scribbling in a notebook. ‘Did anything come out last night on the tow path?’
Sam shook her head. ‘Too much police activity so just a few drunken arseholes staggering along at about 4am. All the publicity about students going into the river and still they walk home lashed.’
‘What are we doing about the girls?’ Bev asked her.
‘Nothing yet,’ Sam said. ‘I want Amber’s phone sorting before we go for them.’
Twenty minutes later, Ed walked into Sam’s office. She looked up from her emails.
‘How did it go?’ she asked.
He relayed Sue’s conversation with Mrs Maan.
‘I wasn’t keen Ed, but good call,’ Sam said. ‘It’s given us a steer. Give me a minute.’
Ed sat down.
Sam picked up her mobile and called Darius Simpson. His phone rang and eventually went to voicemail. ‘Darius, when you get this give me a ring. It’s Sam Parker.’
She had barely put the phone back on her desk when it rang, Darius’s name in the caller display. She put her phone on speaker.
‘That was quick.’
His voice was groggy. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t get to the phone quick enough. I saw it was you on the missed call.’
‘Hope I haven’t woke you.’
‘No, I’m up,’ Darius said unconvincingly.
Liar. Sam smiled.
‘I’m after a favour,’ she said. ‘Can you email some of those photos from last night across to me? The dad, brother and the guy outside the house?’
‘Yeah, no problem but who was he by the way?’ Darius asked her. ‘He never got involved but was watching everything. We got a few of him anyway. Why the rush?’
‘Just something I’m following up.’
‘Sam, if it’s anything, you will let me know?’ Darius said.
‘Of course.’
‘They’ll be with you in 10 minutes,’ he told her.
‘That’s great Darius but send them to my personal email,’ Sam said. ‘They’ll not get through the firewall.’
She hung up and looked at Ed.
‘Interesting development down in Plymouth.’
Ed waited.
‘Bev was right. There’s a UC on the job. He or she is providing the ID evidence on the driver of Sukhi’s car. I got our Director of Intelligence to ring theirs. Obviously they’ll not let us use the UC for identifying the driver. Not yet anyway. Not until their own job’s sorted. But I want Bev to send the photos from last night down to them. Maybe one of them was the driver.’
‘What about prints on the car?’ Ed said.
‘Some,’ Sam answered. ‘The rear-view mirror has a couple and there’s some on the inside of the windscreen. Rest are on the outside bodywork, which as you well know, are useless.’
Ed scowled. ‘I know... 'My client must have touched it when it was parked in the street, your honour. Doesn’t prove he stole it’. Ever wondered what life would be like without lawyers?’
‘Easy,’ Sam said.
‘They’re like bloody wasps,’ Ed ranted. ‘Serve no real purpose other than irritate everybody.’
Sam’s laptop pinged.
‘Darius… good as gold.’
A number of JPEG images were attached to the email.
‘Problem at the minute with this lot is that we only have Baljit’s prints on file,’ Sam said. ‘Have a word with Bev. Get these sent down to DC Welch.’
‘I was thinking... ’
‘Don’t make a habit of it.’ She smiled, flashing her white teeth.
‘Ha ha.’ Ed pulled a face. ‘If what Mrs Maan says is right, and why would she lie, Aisha and Sukhi are split up. Aisha’s dragged back to her house. He looks unconscious. We know where his car ends up but where is he? And if Aisha escapes again, does she contact him again? How would she? No way she’s got a phone and even if she could use someone else’s, people don’t remember numbers these days.’
‘Thoughts?’ Sam asked and waited.
Ed took a deep breath.
‘I always said if she didn’t escape, she was dead. Do I believe she escaped a second time?’ He paused. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘We could have a potential double homicide here, with the family right in the thick of it,’ Sam said.
‘That’s what worries me. I’ll sort the photos.’
‘Make sure they do it right, Ed. Get other photos off the system.’
The detective constable from the Intelligence Cell walked in as Ed walked out.
‘Just a quick one, boss.’
Sam waited.
‘Somebody has just tried to use Aisha’s mini-bank card.’
Sam was out of her seat. ‘What? Where?’
‘Embankment tube station at Westminster,’ the detective told her. ‘About an hour ago –10.17 to be precise.’
London! Bloody hell.
‘Feed that into Ed,’ Sam told the detective. ‘Tell him to get on to the Met. I want CCTV around that tube station. Villiers Street, Thames Embankment.’
The detective raised his eyebrows.
‘I used to go there quite a lot, years ago,’ she answered the unspoken question. ‘Great wine bar in Villiers Street.’
Sam wandered into the finance offices and checked with the department head, Linda Foxton, how much money she was spending on each of the investigations. Each had a separate code: overtime, forensics, and all other costs billed to the respective inquiries. The budget was always in a perilous state.
‘There you are,’ Ed said, as she walked back into the corridor. ‘Hot off the press, Devon and Cornwall. The driver? It’s Baljit, Aisha’s brother.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘We’ll hang fire,’ Sam said. ‘He’s now linked to a disappearance. Get his prints checked against the ones they got off the mirror. I want that doing pronto, even if we have to pay to call somebody out at the Fingerprint Bureau.’
More money.
Sam stood by her office window, looking across the deserted car parks. Headquarters was populated with nine-to five-weekends-off workers... admin, finance, IT, training, and some centralised CID functions. Only those in the control room worked 24/7, and they parked on a different side of the site.
Today the Murder Team car park was full and yet Sam was still worried she wouldn’t have enough staff.
‘The cost of these jobs is spiralling,’ she told Ed. ‘Last night’s operation at Aisha’s street and then on the tow path was a fortune, everybody working a 12-hour shift. I saw Linda just to tot everything up.’
Comply or Die Page 18
