by Ian Robinson
‘I’m doing all that can be done at this time. I’m as frustrated as you are that it isn’t happening as quickly as we’d both hoped it would. You have to understand that to get any taxi driver to agree to come to this hospital to collect a man armed with a blade isn’t the easiest of asks,’ Ivers said, by way of explanation.
As Ivers continued, Diane slowly inched towards the rear of the bed and a chart that was attached along with a biro.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Nash dropped her forensic face shield and leaned against the concrete balcony wall. She placed her elbows on the top and stretched her shoulders as she breathed in some air. The balcony ran along the width of the block that housed two hundred occupants on a South London estate. It provided access and egress for the residents of the fourth floor. It was an estate that functioned the way most did in London. Today wasn’t a day anyone had imagined would play out the way it had.
Detectives in forensic suits swarmed all over the flat after the alarm had been raised by a relative who’d arrived with their own key. They’d been contacted by a charity where the occupant, their daughter, worked. The charity hadn’t heard from the occupant for a couple of days. She’d not been at work or called in sick, which was unusual for someone who was rarely off. Bryony Moore was a much-loved youth worker who’d provided a key service for the estate’s young people but had now been given an enforced retirement at the hands of a killer. Her mother had found her only daughter in the bathroom. Her daughter’s hair bobbed on the surface, as loose strands of Titian curls clawed at the sides of the bath as though they were looking for an escape from the watery grave.
She’d been killed by way of strangulation. The same MO as Melissa Phelps and Jade Williams. The estate was within walking distance of their blocks. The balcony was sealed off with crime scene tape, and a uniformed officer stood calmly as he held a clipboard that supported a crime scene log. Residents keen to understand why police were there, strained necks like giant tortoises in an effort to get a better view. Some held phones on sticks. The officer ignored those that did. His job was to secure the scene, not to police the right to film, despite his aversion to the activity.
The deceased was carried out on a covered stretcher. A baby could be heard crying from an adjacent flat as a blackbird accompanied it in song from a communal washing line far below. The officer on the cordon turned away from the crowd as he heard people say there was something happening behind him. As the body of Bryony Moore was taken over the threshold of her flat for the final time, he removed his hat and held it up obscuring the phone on a stick. There was a limit to what he would accept as a right of free will.
Nash remained on the balcony as the stretcher’s casters bumped over the threshold to the door. She dropped her facemask and let her gloved hands rest in front of her stomach as she lowered her eyes. When she raised them again, she saw JJ was following behind the stretcher carrying a cat basket. It was a sight that Nash felt was all too familiar. Once they’d left, she replaced her overshoes with a fresh set, pulled up her mask and re-entered the flat. Inside, Moretti was engaged in conversation with Yvonne Campbell, the SOCO, as they discussed the instructions Nash had given them for her forensic priorities prior to stepping outside.
Moretti noticed she’d returned, and left Campbell to her work as he joined Nash. They were in the small living room. Nash nodded at the detective to hand her the exhibits book. Nash flicked through the pages, using each individual entry as her guide as to what had been collated so far. It consisted of correspondence, but also a laptop computer and a mobile phone, along with some billing history in the form of paper bills. A diary had also been found. Nash handed the log back to the detective and turned to Moretti.
‘I’ve spoken to Sally and given her the details of the victim’s Instagram account and password; it had been written down in a separate book along with one for her computer. Of course, you know what this means?’ Nash said.
Moretti nodded. ‘Buchanan isn’t our man. For this job anyway,’ he said.
Nash showed her agreement with a bob of her head.
‘I’ve had the control room that covers the hospital where Buchanan is, on the phone. He’s still there holding court and making demands. He’s getting nowhere with the cab, and an armed entry team is getting restless, so it could be over very soon, which leaves me with some decisions to make,’ Nash said.
Her phone started to vibrate and she answered it. It was DS Harris, who sounded like he’d finished a tough set of squats. Nash stepped out of the room and went into the kitchen to take the call.
‘Pip?’ Harris asked.
‘It’s me, what’s up?’
‘I’ve had a breakthrough and need to see you,’ Harris said as he regained his breath.
Nash could hear the sounds of traffic in the background and realised he must have been running. Nash cupped her hand near her chin and curved her palm around her mouth as she spoke.
‘I’m in the middle of another murder scene. I can’t, and won’t, drop it for anything you’ve got going on that involves bent phones,’ she hissed through the voice piece.
No one looking would’ve seen her eyes bulge at the top of her mask as she spoke. The nerve of the man was unreal, she thought.
‘Oi, keep your mask on. This is in relation to your jobs and could help your dynamic duo Matthews and his side prick, Jonesy. I don’t want to talk on the phone,’ Harris said.
Nash took a deep breath as she evaluated where she was in terms of this crime scene. The rest of the team had swung into action rapidly and all immediate enquiries were being undertaken. She could leave the main scene with Moretti who’d taken the initial call and managed it very well prior to her arrival.
‘Are you at the Italian?’ she asked.
‘Where else would I be when we need a meet?’
‘I’ll see you there. This better be good or I won’t hold back my anger regardless of where we are.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
When Nash arrived at the cafe, Harris was already on his second latte and a slab of shortbread. He’d done the decent thing and bought her a slice of the cheesecake that she loved. When he saw her approach the door from his prime seat, he turned to the owner and ordered her a chai latte. Nash strode through the door and weaved through the tables to where Harris was sitting. He was all smiles and charm as she approached and sat down.
‘I hope you washed your hands,’ Harris said with a wry smirk as she settled in and pulled the cheesecake towards her.
Nash lifted the small cake fork and aimed it at Harris like Neptune’s trident.
‘Shut it, you. I’ve no mood for your smarm or sarcasm. I’m having a bitch of a time. I am in the mood for this cheesecake and a fresh chai latte, though,’ she said as the drink landed before her.
Nash thanked the waiter and looked at Harris over the rim of the cup as she took a sip.
‘You’ve surprised me, thank you,’ she said.
Nash felt guilty as she sat and enjoyed the normality of life while her team grafted and the Moore family grieved. She snapped out of it quickly as she knew this was work and not a social visit and she had to eat. The mind could be a bastard at times, she surmised.
‘Let’s get down to business, shall we? I don’t have long and please knock that childish grin off your face. You know exactly what I mean,’ Nash said.
She took out a plain pad from her bag rather than her daybook. It was fitting for the setting and one she’d used since the inception of the covert operation. It kept her jobs apart and she wouldn’t risk picking up the wrong book for the wrong investigation.
‘So, what is it you’ve established?’ she asked.
Harris looked about the cafe before he replied. It was quiet for the time of day. A few stragglers sat away from them and were engrossed in their phones.
Harris leaned down and picked up his own man-bag. He took out a non-descript, red hardback book. He pushed it towards Nash and Nash opened it. Inside were a series of
images taken from a covert camera. The lead images were of the front of the phone shop they’d been targeting. She noticed that the dates generated by the camera’s processor were from a month ago; the time and date digitally stamped in the bottom right corner of each still image. She continued to turn the pages while Harris left her to it, looking out the window misted from condensation.
She turned another page. Staring up at her was the face of Melissa Phelps. She wore dark shades, a casual coat and skinny fit jeans. She was pictured exiting the phone shop. Nash looked up at Harris who nodded at her to keep turning. She did so, and on the next page was Jade Williams. She was dressed in a dark suit and overcoat. None of the women appeared as though they were being subversive, just exiting a shop that sold mobile phones. Nash turned another page, which was blank. She sat back and pushed the book away, as though it contained porn she didn’t wish to view. This feeling didn’t last long as her curiosity overwhelmed her and she dragged the book back and opened it again just to satisfy her questioning mind that what she’d seen was accurate. Harris observed how Nash had taken in the images and how perplexed she looked.
‘I thought about our last conversation and how you wanted the outstanding from the robbery identified and nicked,’ he said. ‘I tasked the Ops team to review all the covert camera footage from the observation point that covered the phone shop, primarily looking for any smash and grabbers that frequented the place. They agreed, naturally, and this was an unexpected revelation. I couldn’t believe it myself when I saw the images. To be fair, it was nothing to do with my detective ability. All down to a keen-eyed DC on the operational team. He’d seen the witness appeals your people had created on the police Intranet. I’d never have twigged that they were your victims but this DC’s got a reputation for CCTV work, hence he was tasked on that role. He then decided to look at Jade Williams’s photo and compare it to the only Jamaican female he’d seen in her age bracket enter the shop, and he couldn’t understand what he’d come up with.’ Harris paused and took a sip of coffee as he let Nash digest the information.
‘So, both of my victims used the shop before they were murdered,’ Nash said. She looked out of the window while she pondered how this would fit with her investigation. The shop was a phone shop. It wasn’t beyond possibility that they’d heard about the place and decided to use it. The prices were good and times hard. One of them maybe, but both of them seemed a stretch. The professions they were in would also appear to be out of character for the clientele the shop attracted. Both women could easily afford a new phone and upgrade whenever they wished. They were on a professional London wage.
‘What’s your take on it?’ Nash asked.
Harris sat back and placed his palms behind his head. He interlocked his fingers as he thought about the question she’d posed. He dropped back closer to her before he spoke.
‘In all honesty I don’t know yet, but I don’t believe in coincidence. There’s something about this shop and those it attracts that makes me uncomfortable,’ Harris said, which wasn’t of any help to Nash other than to confirm the signals her gut was firing were accurate.
‘What do we know about the shop? Who owns it? Is it leased? By whom, when, for how long, how’s it paid for, who else works there in addition to the two we’ve met?’ she asked rapidly, as her brain generated each question.
‘I’ll need to know if the latest victim frequented the place. I’ll get a photo to you to give to the DC on the operational team who’s doing this CCTV work. How are we going to manage this now, Carl? This investigation has crossed over to murder. I have an idea how I’d like it managed but I’m willing to work with you while I can,’ she said.
Harris appreciated the position she was in. He’d supplied covert camera footage that was now considered of relevance to her murder enquiries. It wasn’t a major issue at the present time, but could be if charges were brought and the shop had a greater meaning in the investigations. Something neither knew right now, but it needed to be aired as a potential issue.
‘Look, murder trumps robbery, so however you want to play it, you have my support,’ Harris said, and Nash could tell by his face that it was genuinely meant and not an attempt to fob her off then carry on alone and ignore her investigations.
‘I’ll get Moretti involved,’ Nash said. ‘I can’t manage everything and that way he can see that I’m not trying to hide anything either, as there’s still the issue of my covert number entering the murder investigations, and that issue hasn’t been resolved. I’ll need to meet with the CPS and get some early advice. I know a good band E lawyer, they’ll grasp the issues quickly and advise appropriately,’ she said.
Nash sent Moretti a text and he responded that he could meet in the next two hours back at the office. She replied that she’d see him there. Harris paid and they left the cafe. Nash headed to the underground at Vauxhall and as she descended the steps down to the escalator to the tube platform, she wondered where all this new information was headed. She had the book Harris had brought with him in her bag. She gripped it between her underarm and the side of her chest as she flashed her warrant card at the gate attendant who let her through. She stepped onto the escalator that conveyed her down to the train’s platform.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The armed entry team were still in the corridor. There came the sound of a crash of doors in the distance. Buchanan stopped talking; his senses alert to the change from noise of his own making to that of something new.
‘What was that?’ he demanded.
Ivers turned towards the noise.
‘I’ve been listening to you so haven’t a clue. It is a hospital, though, so probably another admission that is being turned away because you’re still insistent on locking down an entire ward,’ Ivers said as he turned back to Buchanan.
Ivers noticed a faint smile had appeared on Diane’s face. She’d slowly shuffled back away from the end of the bed as Buchanan stared back at him with a puzzled look.
‘I’m not here for fun!’ Buchanan said.
‘Well, that’s the first thing we can agree on,’ Ivers muttered as he heard the familiar sound of a heeled shoe on the hospital’s linoleum floor.
Nash approached the armed officer who was stationed beyond the main doors to the ward. The sentry had been informed by personal radio that Nash was coming through. He’d radioed for another armed officer to join him and escort Nash to the temporary operational command room that had been set up in the nurses’ staff room.
‘So? Who is it?’ Buchanan demanded.
He wouldn’t venture beyond the self-imposed boundary line he’d created in his mind while in the room.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Ivers replied.
‘Well, it better be the taxi driver is all I’ll say,’ Buchanan said as he sat back down next to Diane and wiped the handle of the scalpel blade on his trousers.
* * *
Nash greeted the main commander for the operation: a young-looking superintendent. They sat down at the table. It was adorned with an architectural map of the ward and a portable TV screen that showed a top-down view of the room Buchanan and Diane were in. The image was being routed back courtesy of a fibre optic cable that had been covertly installed behind the scenes while Buchanan was having a rant.
The superintendent noticed Nash observing the screen.
‘Just in case this runs for days and we actually storm it,’ he said, as though he needed to justify his actions to another officer of rank that attended.
‘Well, I have some news that may help bring this to an end,’ Nash said as she accepted a mug of tea placed in front of her.
The superintendent waved a hand politely to intimate that he was good as far as refreshment was concerned.
‘I hope you’ve arrived with a resolution, Detective Inspector, as I’m fast running out of options,’ he said.
‘I’ve had another murder. Similar MO to the other two and it can’t have been Buchanan. He was here under police guard. The patholo
gist has provided an approximate time of death and now that’s officially recorded, I’m here to ensure Buchanan gets the message and see if we can’t end this standoff. I’ve called his solicitor. She’s not going to attend as she’s with another client,’ Nash said.
‘Well, thank God for that. Just the kind of news I need to put this to bed,’ he said, beginning to clear the table of papers.
‘What are you doing?’ Nash asked.
‘I’m wrapping this up sharpish and giving the hospital back its ward,’ he replied.
‘I wouldn’t be so hasty if I were you,’ Nash suggested.
He sat back down with a frown.
‘Well, surely he can be bailed from here?’ he asked, in a vain hope she’d say yes.
‘He’s wanted for charging in relation to a rape, and a recent search of a garage, to which he had access, would tend to suggest he hasn’t stopped. Obviously he’s assaulted Diane while he’s held her against her will, so I would also suggest further charges are appropriate,’ Nash said.
‘Of course… of course. How will you tell him?’ he said.
‘Me?’ Nash replied.
‘Yes, you. Who else is going to break the news to him?’ he asked, perplexed that she should suggest a man of his rank deal directly with a member of the public.
Nash leaned towards him and composed herself before she replied.
‘If I waltz in there like one of the girls at the boxing who gets to announce the next round, he’s likely to hit the roof. According to him, I’ve destroyed his life. I’m no longer on his Christmas card list. No matter what way you look at it, to him, it’s nothing but a shit sandwich and I’m no waitress,’ Nash replied.
She’d learned very early on in her career that if she sat back and took on board every request a senior officer made to duck work, she’d never get anywhere. She wasn’t about to be left holding this baby. She could see by his wide eyes he wasn’t going to accept her statement, so she hammered her position home.
‘I’m the Investigating Officer for three murders. I have a team awaiting my direction. This is not a message I need to deliver. I’m only here so you can hear the update from me in person rather than by phone. Messages have a habit of getting lost in translation. I have no way to prove Buchanan did the other two murders. His prepared statement is convincing and corroborates the forensic evidence for one of my murder scenes. I’m not interested in charging the wrong person. Other information has surfaced that my team will now react to that may negate his involvement. That man is wasting valuable police time. I think it’s about time his rave was shut down, don’t you?’ she said as she got up and gathered her bag and coat.
