Team Spirit (Special Crime Unit Book 1) (12 page)

‘We
assume,’ Sophia reminded her. ‘We don’t know for certain what was in that bag
of hers.’

‘Yeah,
but we found it. It’s got her purse in and some makeup - nothing fancy, just
lipstick, mascara, powder: everyday stuff. No change of clothing. Unless, like
you say, she’d put it on.’

‘You’ve
double-checked the description of what she was wearing against the clothes
Marie found?’

‘The
Clarkes are on their way to Hackney to ID them.’

‘What’s
in the purse?’

Kim
shrugged. ‘Just some loose change, a condom and an Oyster card. Debit card’s
missing and no sign of that hundred quid. If there was anything else, it’s gone
and all.’

‘To
hinder us, if this is what it looks like,’ Sophia said gravely.

‘Them
bits of rope...’

‘Yes.’
The DCI nodded. ‘Until we get something back from the lab we can’t go wildly
speculating, but coupled with that’ - she waved at the red daub - ‘it looks a
bit ominous. Is Marie back yet?’

‘Guv.’

She
was at her shoulder, right on cue.

‘I’ve
had another word with Mrs Brownlie,’ she said. ‘Reckons she can generally tell
when the squatters are in or out, ‘cause they’re not that mindful of being
quiet. She had a good think, but she can’t remember hearing or seeing Meredith
or any of the others since yesterday afternoon, and definitely not since last
night when Porter called there. If it
was
Porter.’

Kim
said, ‘Do they wake her up at night?’

Marie
shook her head. ‘She’s on tablets for her arthritis, says once she’s had those,
that’s her for the night. The Rolling Stones playing live in her bedroom
wouldn’t wake her.’

‘Her
metaphor, or yours?’ The three of them grinned, grateful for a moment’s release
from the grim business at hand. ‘Now,’ Sophia went on, ‘I’ve asked the local
CID to tap their informants, and we’ll get all the hostels checked, see if
that’s where Meredith’s gone.’ She turned to Marie again. ‘It would be helpful
to have a bit more to work with. Did Mrs Brownlie mention any of the other
squatters’ names?’

‘Aye,
she did,’ Marie said, pleased to have anticipated. ‘There’s two other males
who’ve been here besides Meredith. One’s called Dermot and she thinks the other
one’s Bill or Billy. She says there was also a girl turned up from time to
time, didn’t appear to be a permanent fixture.’

‘Debbie?’

Marie
shrugged.

‘Descriptions?’

‘In
my pocket book.’

‘Get
them written up and circulated,’ Sophia said. ‘Chances are they have some sort
of record. How about the neighbours the other side?’

‘No
luck there, I’m afraid, guv. Saw nothing, heard nothing. All they were
interested in, and I quote, “Hope this means those druggie parasites are out of
there for good”.’ A cynical smile. ‘No squatters’ friends there. Bring down
property values, don’t you know.’

‘There’s
a laugh,’ Kim said, ‘round here.’

‘Anything
else?’ Sophia said.

‘I
was about to go and see if there was any joy from the house to house.’

Sophia
pondered for a moment and said, ‘No, leave that. The local bobbies can cover
it. I don’t think there’s much else to be done here; you may as well be off
home.’

‘Guv?’
Kim glanced over at the bed with difficulty. ‘In view of this, should I call
off the obbo? Least for tonight, seeing as the Clarkes ain’t gonna be there.’

‘Yes,
call and let Nina know she can have an early night. It all depends on what
happens when they get here as to how we proceed from then on. I take it,’ she
added, ‘nothing more of interest on that front yet?’

Kim
shook her head.

‘I
still agree with you: he knows more than he’s telling,’ Sophia said. ‘But we
shall see.’

We could always go
to the pictures, Nina decided, looking at the office clock. It was the second
thing she’d done after putting the phone down from Kim Oliver’s call. The first
thing had been to slam a clenched fist down on the desk and swear very loudly,
an action so out of character that Jeff, the only other person still around,
had almost fallen out of his chair. He was now staring at her, as aghast as if
the Queen had walked into the room and asked if she could bum a smoke.

She
stopped short of telling him it was PMS, doubtful he’d be convinced. Six months
working in an office full of women, she supposed, you soon got to know when
their periods were. She said, to stop him thinking, ‘You’re a film buff. What’s
on at the moment?’

His
gaze followed hers to the clock. ‘Bit late.’

‘I
was thinking the Warner, Purley Way.’

He
nodded. ‘Shows all hours there,’ he informed her, infuriatingly, because she
knew that. He said, ‘No overtime tonight?’

‘Been
a development. Apparently I’m not needed.’ She bent down to pick up her bag.
‘Oh, well. Better make the most of it. See you.’

‘Take
care,’ he called, making her hesitate in her step as she went out of the door,
because if he said any sort of goodbye at all it was a simple grunt - ‘Ta-ta’
at the most. She told herself to stop being paranoid. He couldn’t possibly know
anything, unless Sandra had been talking, and if she had Nina would kill her.

Jeff
was still bothering her as she drove home. Of course he’s going to be curious,
she tried to tell herself, if you suddenly start shouting obscenities and
assaulting the furniture. He wasn’t the sort to pry, but what if he’d overheard
something? The canteen was a hotbed of gossip, seldom founded on much more than
hints and hearsay, but often conveyed with little regard to volume.

Start
thinking like that and she’d go cuckoo. There was no telling what Jeff, or
anyone, knew that they kept to themselves. Most likely, she thought with a
flash of inspiration, it was this business they were investigating. Rape
naturally turned your mind to the wellbeing of those close to you. So stop
being a miserable, cynical cow, Nina chided herself, and take his words in the
spirit they were intended.

She
looked up at the house as she parked, and her heart sank as she saw the front
windows were unlit. That meant nothing either. What was the
matter
with her? It was her parents’
bridge night, and although her sister had singing lessons on Fridays she was
quite capable of cancelling and going out with her friends if they came up with
something more interesting to do. Besides, Paul was probably in their room, at
the
back
of
the house, remember?

Nina,
stepping indoors with a lighter heart, decided she wasn’t going to take no for
an answer. She didn’t feel like making a full change just for the pictures but
she was washed and brushed up; she might as well redo her face and present Paul
with a
fait accompli
. No point looking like Dracula’s dinner on top of -

She
never knew what made her stop at the top of the stairs. Perhaps something among
the tiny, subliminal sounds and smells of the house, alerting her to an alien
presence. But there was nothing subliminal about the female giggle she
distinctly heard coming from the half-open door next to theirs.

Lucia,
she thought, appalled. How could she, in Mum and Dad’s room? She crossed
herself and edged towards the door, driven by a terrible fascination. It
occurred to her that the laugh had sounded nothing like Lucia; it had been
shrill, coquettish, where her sister’s was a sort of strident bray.

The
thought got no further before she froze, ice congealing in her gut.

Through
the gap in the door she could see her parents’ bed reflected in the wardrobe
mirror. The bed was occupied. From beneath the sheets protruded a man’s broad,
bare shoulders, and on top of the shoulders rested the cropped, balding head of
her husband.

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?’