Cullen had stayed for a bit in the empty office, but not even the Yard’s air-conditioning had kept up with the heat of the afternoon. The room was stuffy, and the building had that stale, dregs-of-the-week feel that came with Sunday afternoons. When the janitors came through, he’d switched off the computer and left them to it.
The guv was right, he thought as he rode the stifling tube back to Euston Road. Since his break-up with his ex-girlfriend, she of the hyphenate, Stella Fairchild-Priestly, he’d become a mole. Cullen had always been focused on work-one of the reasons behind the failure of the relationship-but lately he’d become obsessive, and he’d read enough pop psychology to know such single-mindedness wasn’t healthy. Not to mention the fact that he wanted above all to succeed at his job, and pissing off the boss was not the way forward.
But nothing else seemed to motivate him. Social networking was not his cup of tea, although he’d lurked on Internet sites. It was an easy habit to acquire when part of your job was finding out things about other people, but that made him even less likely to want to put information about himself in the public domain.
As the train lurched into Euston Square station, he waited, sweating, as he listened to the carriage creak and groan. He hated the tube, even when it wasn’t sweltering. It occurred to him that he could buy a car and avoid public transport altogether-that would be something new to occupy him for a bit. But then parking near his flat would be a nightmare, and as he often had access to transport pool cars during an investigation, it seemed a pointless expenditure.
He climbed the stairs to the street and walked east, his steps slowing as he neared his building. He hated his flat, a boring gray cube in a boring gray building near Euston Station. Stella had liked to say that he lived on the edge of Bloomsbury, but that was stretching it, in terms of style as well as geography. She’d always wanted to make him sound cooler than he was. Hell, that was an understatement-she’d always wanted to make him cooler than he was.
As part of her “fix Dougie” mission, she’d done the flat up for him in a trendy minimalist style that he’d hated from the first minute. But he’d not wanted to hurt her feelings, and since they’d split, he’d never found the energy or the imagination to change it. He’d bought some nice audio equipment, but Stella had made fun of his music collection so often that he was reluctant to share it with anyone else, and in truth he listened to his iPod most of the time.
And then, after Stella, there had been Maura Bell, the prickly detective from Southwark, and that little interlude had put paid to any remaining self-confidence. He tried not to think about that disaster.
Entering his building, he took the elevator to his floor and unlocked the door. The place was tidy, at least, but roasting. He pulled open the sitting room window as far as it would go, letting in a faint current of exhaust-scented air, then looked round the flat in increasing dismay.
Why did he stay? His lease was coming up for renewal next month, he realized, and he hadn’t yet signed the papers. The flat had been the best he could afford before he’d been promoted to sergeant, but he’d had several pay rises since then. He even had some money in the bank-aside from splashing out on electronics and decent clothes for work, he didn’t spend much, and he’d paid off all his university debt.
An exhilarating sense of freedom swept through him. He could go…anywhere. Someplace nearer work. Someplace near the river, maybe. Kincaid was right, he needed a hobby. He’d rowed at school, and it had been the only athletic thing he’d ever been halfway decent at. Maybe he could find a flat in Fulham or Putney, near the rowing club.
He booted up his computer, then checked the fridge. One beer, but that would do for now. He sat down again and typed in “Flats to Let.”
The next morning Cullen went in to work early, excusing his further zealousness on the grounds that he wanted to take some time off at lunch. He’d not slept much, lying awake with visions of flats dancing in his head, knowing it was unlikely any would live up to their adverts, but unable to resist the siren lure of fitted kitchens, power showers, and hardwood floors. One flat even claimed to have a view of the river, and although he knew that probably meant standing on a box in a room the size of a postage stamp, he’d put it first on his list.
Schooling himself to take care of business before calling estate agents, he shut himself in Kincaid’s office with the assistance requests that had come in overnight for the murder investigation teams. He’d make a start on assignments, then Kincaid could check them when he came in.
He was happily humming something by Abba when he stopped dead, staring at the monitor with wide eyes.
“Gemma’s name on an incoming-case file?” Kincaid asked, frowning. He loosened his tie, which he never managed to keep properly knotted once he got in his office, and took the printout from Cullen, scanning for essentials.
He recognized the name of the victim, Nasir Malik, found dead in Haggerston Park, and tried to remember what Gemma had told him about yesterday’s events. She and the boys had come in after he’d got home from the Yard, and the evening had passed quickly with the Sunday family routine: dinner, discussing the boys’ plans for the week, finishing up the laundry, weekend chores.
In a lull during the washing-up after the meal, when the boys were out of earshot, they had talked about Gemma’s mum. And then Gemma had told him a little about her day. Tim Cavendish’s friend had been found dead, and she’d been called to the scene by the investigating officer. Afterwards, she said, she’d managed to have the victim’s little girl placed in foster care with Betty Howard. She’d talked about the child with such concern that Kincaid had wondered if she was displacing her worry over her mother.
But before he’d had a chance to ask her more about the case, Toby had come in wanting a story, and by the time the boys were tucked up, they had fallen into bed themselves, exhausted, and he had given it no more thought.
Now, pulling out his mobile, he rang her. “Didn’t you say the pathologist thought Tim’s friend’s death was suspicious?” he asked.
“Yes, that was my impression,” she said. “But there was no sign of trauma, and they won’t have the tox results yet. Why?”
“Tox results or not, the DI in charge”-he peered at the page, wondering if he was going to have to give in to reading glasses-“Neal Weller, his name is, has sent us the case. You said you met the pathologist. Any good?”
“He seemed very thorough. But Weller, he’s a bit of a bulldog. I’d not have thought he’d hand it off so easily. He argued with Dr. Kaleem.”
“Well, it looks like something’s spooked Weller. What’s your gut feeling on this?”
He waited, listening to the hum of activity on Gemma’s end of the line.
“I’m in the CID room. Give me a sec.” Then he heard a door shut and the background sound vanished as if a switch had been flipped. “Um, I think I’m inclined to agree with the pathologist,” Gemma said from the sanctity of her office. “Something didn’t feel right.”
“But on Saturday, you said Tim was worried about his friend. I gathered he thought he might be suicidal.”
“Tim was worried, but he’s adamant that Naz didn’t kill himself.” She paused, and Kincaid heard the tap of a pencil on her desk, her habit when she was thinking. After a moment, she said, “It’s a dodgy case, any way you look at it. And Weller was the one who investigated the wife’s disappearance.”
Kincaid picked up a pencil himself and doodled interlocking circles. “Then Weller’s treading on eggshells now, I would guess. Afraid he missed something. Could be a right balls-up, and he’s getting out while the getting’s good.”
“I’d guess he’s close to retirement,” said Gemma. “He wouldn’t want to finish his career on a black mark. So…” She hesitated, and Kincaid grinned at her restraint. “So, if you think the case merits reassignment, will you take it yourself?”
“Would you kill me if I didn’t?”
“Oh, worse than that. Much worse,” Gemma answered, and h
e heard the smile in her voice.
“And where would you start?” he asked. “If it were your case.”
“You’ll want to see Weller, of course. And Tim. And the pathologist. But if it were me, I think I’d start with Naz Malik’s law partner. She’s bound to know more about Naz and his wife than anyone else.”
Kincaid flipped through the case notes, saw the name and address of Naz Malik’s firm.
“You’ll keep me in the loop?” added Gemma.
“Have you ever known me to overlook a valuable resource?” he asked, and smiled as he clicked off. Cullen was staring at him, his lips pursed as if he’d just eaten a lemon.
“We’re going to take this one?” Cullen repeated Gemma’s question, but with much less anticipation.
Kincaid’s sergeant tended to be territorial, and wouldn’t care for Gemma’s involvement in the case. That alone was enough to make Kincaid want to stir the pot. “You have any objection?”
“I-I was going to look at flats at lunchtime,” Cullen said, and Kincaid had the distinct impression he’d been about to say something else.
“Good for you,” Kincaid told him with cheerful bonhomie. “About time you made a change, Doug. But I think you’ll have to do it another day.”
After a more thorough look through the case file, Kincaid had rung DI Neal Weller. A brusque message on Weller’s voice mail informed him that Weller was in court and would return calls as soon as possible.
“Court,” Kincaid said to Cullen, who grimaced.
“That might take him out all day. Or longer.”
“Might not be a bad thing.” Kincaid didn’t mind gathering his own impressions of the case before he discussed it with Weller, starting with the crime scene. Not that he expected to find evidence that the SOCOs had missed, but he always liked to see where a death had taken place, even if he was coming into a case after the fact. It helped him organize his mental landscape.
“We’ll start with Haggerston Park,” he told Cullen. “Call down for a car, and I’ll clear things with the guv’nor.”
“Will your personal connection cause any conflict of interest?” his chief superintendent, Denis Childs, had asked when Kincaid was shown into his office.
“Not unless our friend Tim Cavendish starts to look like a suspect,” Kincaid had answered. In fact, the personal connection might give Kincaid an advantage denied another detective. “I’ll let you know if I think there’s a problem,” he’d assured Childs.
Once he’d finished his meeting with Childs and found the car ready, he had Cullen drive them east, skirting round the top of the City, through Shoreditch and into Bethnal Green.
Haggerston Park looked benign, if a little faded by the August heat. Young Asian parents strolled with babies in push chairs; a passing jogger swigged from a water bottle; an elderly white couple walked arm in arm, soaking up the sun.
As they drove past Hackney City Farm, Kincaid caught the unmistakable whiff of manure. The smell, etched into the sensory circuits of his childhood, triggered a spasm of longing for the dairy fields of Cheshire. And then the thought of home led him to wonder what he would tell his mother the next time she asked about plans for the wedding.
Gemma had been more and more evasive on the subject, not to mention prickly in general, and now there was the business with her mother…Not that he wasn’t concerned about Vi, but it worried him deeply that family stresses seemed to make Gemma pull away from him, rather than drawing her closer. At least she’d been voluble enough in talking to him about this case. Perhaps the investigation would give him an opportunity to get her to open up about whatever was bothering her. If formalizing their relationship was going to change things between them, he’d rather go on as they were.
Checking the map against the case report, he directed Cullen into Audrey Street, where they parked and got out. The scene had been cleared. A strip of crime scene tape hung limply from the iron gate at the park entrance, and a placard to one side held the previous day’s date and asked that anyone having seen suspicious activity at that location report it to the police help line.
Kincaid followed the path, taking in the details, until he reached the section of broken fence still marked off-limits by tape-not that a strip of tape would keep kids and curiosity seekers at bay.
“A good spot for a rape or a mugging, at least after dark,” said Cullen, studying the terrain. “Or a drug deal gone wrong, a gang knifing. But odd for a suicide.”
“Or a murder.” Kincaid walked farther along, until the trees thinned and he could see the land curving away towards Hackney City Farm. He then went back and examined the taped area, thinking about the scene photos included in the file. “What was this guy doing here?” he mused. “Meeting someone?”
“And then he just dropped dead?” Cullen tested the fence a few feet outside the taped area. “I don’t think the weight of a body falling would have broken the fence.”
“Unless it was already damaged. We’ll have to check with the groundskeepers. And I want to talk to the pathologist myself. But first let’s have a word with Mr. Malik’s partner.”
“It’s not far,” said Cullen, having taken over navigation while Kincaid drove. “Just this side of Bethnal Green Road.”
“That might make a bit more sense of Malik being found in the park.” Following Cullen’s directions, Kincaid pulled up in front of an undistinguished building in a side street off Warner Place. It was the second house in a rather grimy terrace. Gray-brown brick, blue door and blue trim work. Lettering over the ground-floor windows read MALIK PHILLIPS, SOLICITORS, and to one side, a little more discreetly, there was a phone number.
Kincaid pulled into the curb and got out. Studying the shop front while waiting for Cullen to come round the car, he peered through a gap in the miniblinds, but saw nothing but shadows. He pressed the buzzer, and after a moment the door released. He pushed it open and entered a small hallway, Cullen close on his heels. To their left, an open door led into the reception area he’d glimpsed through the blinds.
The room was empty, but it looked more inviting from the inside than it had from the window. Comfortably worn brown leather chairs and sofa, a serviceable desk, an industrial-grade Berber carpet, but the room was clean, and the freshly painted cream walls held imaginatively hung canvas reproductions of Banksy street art. An interesting choice for a solicitor, Kincaid thought, the ultimate outlaw artist.
A female voice called from upstairs. “Naz, you forget your keys again? Why the hell didn’t you ring me-” A woman peered down at them from the first-floor landing. “Sorry. I thought you were my partner. He’s late, and the receptionist isn’t in today. Can I help you? We usually see clients by appointment.” The tone was slightly disapproving. She started down the stairs, and as she came into the light cast by the glass transom in the front door, Kincaid saw that she was dark skinned, and West Indian rather than Asian. She was a little too thin, and wore a navy business suit with a plain white blouse. Her dark hair looked as if it had been straightened, and was pulled back in an unflattering knot. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, he caught the reek of stale cigarette smoke.
“You’re Louise Phillips?” He held out his warrant card. “Superintendent Kincaid. Sergeant Cullen. Scotland Yard.”
“Scotland Yard?” She stared at him. “If this is about Azad, you know I can’t talk to you. Unless”-she took a sharp little breath and her eyes widened-“is it Sandra? Are you here about Sandra?”
So she didn’t yet know what had happened. Naz Malik’s death had made a paragraph that morning in one of the tabloids, but it was probably not the sort of paper Louise Phillips read, and Naz’s death hadn’t been violent enough to get more mention. “Mrs. Phillips, is there somewhere we could talk?” he asked.
“It’s Ms.,” she corrected. “I’m not married. Not that my marital status should be anyone’s business.” The little speech seemed rote, tossed off while she gathered her thoughts. She glanced into the reception area, then shook her
head, rejecting it although it looked the obvious spot. “Come upstairs, then. I suppose we can talk in my office.”
Turning, she led them up the stairs. The cigarette smell intensified as they climbed, and as they entered the first-floor office, Kincaid saw why. A plastic pub ashtray held place of honor on the cluttered desk. It was filled with cigarette ends, and one lipstick-smeared specimen had burned to ash in the slotted edge. The room was not much more attractive. Scuffed and untidy, it lacked any of the reception area’s charm, and in spite of the heat, its two windows were shut.
Louise Phillips waved an ineffective hand at the fug in the air. “Naz is always getting on at me, but it’s my office and I don’t know why I should have to be politically correct.”
Kincaid managed a smile, wondering how much exposure to secondhand smoke it took to contract lung cancer, and sat in one of the metal and faux-leather chairs that fought to occupy space between boxes stuffed with files. Cullen freed another chair, and Phillips sank down behind her desk with the apparent relief of one returning to charted territory, or at least escaping from a smoke-free zone.
“Are you sure you don’t want to wait and talk to Naz?” she said. “Whatever it is-I can’t imagine why he’s late. He’s never late-”
“Ms. Phillips,” Kincaid broke in. It was always better to get it over with quickly. “We can’t talk to your partner. I’m sorry, but Naz Malik is dead.”
“What?” Phillips stared at him, and her dark skin seemed to go slightly gray. “You’re joking.” She swallowed, pressing her fingers to her lips as she shook her head. “No. You said ‘police.’ You don’t joke. But I don’t understand. When? How? Was it an accident?”
“We think not.”
“But-” Reaching for a packet of Silk Cut on her desk, Phillips fumbled a cigarette free and lit it with a cheap plastic lighter. Through an exhaled stream of smoke, she squinted at him. “No, it wouldn’t be, not if you’re Scotland Yard. And you said you were a superintendent. Major crimes unit, I should think.”
Necessary as Blood Page 11
