‘Where did you start looking?’
‘Where you should have.’ He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Gayle told me her mates said she’d gone to meet a stranger she’d been emailing, a boy. I’d have thought she’d have more sense.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you know as well as I do that it was a paedo, don’t you? Some pervert who wanted to attack my daughter.’ His voice broke a little on the last word. ‘He persuaded her to meet him somewhere she thought was safe, somewhere he felt in control. It’s not rocket science to work out he was local. So I got a list of the local pervs and started asking questions.’
‘Where did you get the list?’
‘No comment.’ He would cooperate, but only so far, I realised. He was only giving us what we could already prove.
‘We know you intimidated a civilian worker at the police station in Brixton. Who told you to contact her?’
‘No comment.’
‘How did you decide who to target from the list she gave you?’
‘No comment.’
‘The victims were all those who lived closest to where your daughter was last seen, weren’t they?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘The three murder victims – Barry Palmer, Ivan Tremlett and Fintan Kinsella – were tortured before they were killed.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did you torture them?’
‘Are you surprised?’
‘Why did you torture them?’
‘To find out what they knew. They weren’t inclined to be helpful. I was just making sure they had a reason to remember anything that might be of use.’
‘Did it occur to you that they weren’t able to tell you anything because they didn’t know what happened to your daughter?’ Derwent asked.
‘Them’s the breaks.’ Skinner was completely impassive. ‘They got what they deserved.’
‘Ivan Tremlett had his eyes gouged out. Barry Palmer was mutilated. Why was that?’
‘Got to make the punishment fit the crime, don’t you?’
Godley pounced. ‘How did you know the details of their crimes? Who shared that with you?’
‘No effing comment.’
‘Mr Skinner, you were arrested yesterday afternoon at nine Camford Mews, the address of one William Forgrave. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’ His voice was toneless.
‘You were found there in the company of two of your associates, Brandon Lennox and Howard Lennox, in the act of torturing William Forgrave.’
A shrug. ‘We were asking him a few questions.’
‘Were they with you when you spoke to Barry Palmer?’
‘No comment.’
‘What about Ivan Tremlett?’
‘No comment.’
‘Fintan Kinsella?’
‘You know the answer to this one by now.’ A half-smile, wholly humourless.
Godley changed tack. ‘Your daughter went missing on Saturday. When did you return to the UK?’
‘Monday.’
‘And Mr Palmer died on Tuesday morning. I’d have thought you’d have wanted to move a bit faster.’
‘You can’t always rush into things.’ He shifted his weight as if trying to get comfortable and failing. ‘I wanted to talk to all of the scumbags on the list as soon as I got it, but I had to take it slow. Get them at the right time. Make the arrangements. Avoid getting caught, ideally, though that didn’t work out.’
‘Very professional,’ Derwent commented.
‘Fuck yourself.’
Godley ignored him. ‘You murdered Ivan Tremlett the same day, in the afternoon.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And Fintan Kinsella early Thursday morning.’
‘Mmph.’ He looked away.
‘What’s wrong, Mr Skinner?’
‘The priest. I didn’t like what happened with him. I knew he wasn’t involved as soon as I’d spoken to him but I couldn’t leave him to talk about us. I didn’t stick around to see what happened. All I know is that he was taken care of.’
‘He was shot in the face,’ Derwent said drily.
‘Well, now he’s in a better place.’ Skinner still seemed uncomfortable and I recalled that Cheyenne was at a Catholic school. The strange half-heartedness of Fintan Kinsella’s murder started to make sense.
‘How did you get them to let you in?’
He showed his canines again in what passed for a smile. ‘Haven’t you worked that out?’
‘You played dress-up.’ I hadn’t meant to draw attention to myself, but I couldn’t help it.
Skinner swivelled in his seat to look at me. ‘Not personally, but yeah. You’re dead right. And it worked. People trust uniforms, even in this day and age. You’d be amazed how many doors open to you if you’ve got a clipboard and a van.’ He turned back to Derwent. ‘Are you proud of yourself? You’re responsible for that little bit of handiwork.’
I realised that he was talking about my face and blushed deeply, even as Derwent shook his head. ‘It’s all down to you, John. We wouldn’t have been there if you hadn’t been there. I’m not taking responsibility for any of it.’
That was in character, at least. Abruptly, Skinner seemed to tire of trying to provoke Derwent.
‘Are we finished here? I did the lot. I’m not going to tell you who helped. I didn’t find anything out, but then neither did you lot.’ He leaned across the table, his eyes locked on Godley’s, and the pleading in his voice was completely sincere. ‘For Christ’s sake, have some compassion. I’ve never liked you, but I rate you as a copper. If you’d been looking for Cheyenne from the start she’d be back at home now. Stop bothering with me and look for her, before it’s too late.’
With a rush of sympathy, I understood that he was sacrificing himself to save his daughter. That explained his solicitor’s detachment, since his instructions were clearly to place as few obstructions in Godley’s path as possible. It also explained Skinner’s willingness to plead guilty to whatever we wanted. He had enough pride not to involve any of his associates if he could avoid it, and he still hated Godley – of that I had no doubt. But he could hate him and need him at the same time.
Godley’s face was sombre. ‘We just don’t have much to go on, John. I’m sorry. I will bring her home to Gayle if I can.’
‘Alive, though. You do think she’s alive, don’t you?’
Godley couldn’t quite bring himself to be reassuring. He was too honest. ‘I’ll believe she’s alive until I know anything to the contrary. And whatever happens, I’ll find the person who took her and bring them to justice.’
Skinner’s face twisted. ‘Justice. What do you know about justice? You’ll put him in prison for a few years, or a mental hospital. Bang him up, give him three meals a day and all his entertainment for nothing. I’ve seen what you do to punish people and it means fuck all. That’s not justice.’ He spat on the floor as if he wanted to clean his mouth of the very word.
Derwent pushed his chair back and Godley snapped, ‘No, Josh. Leave it.’
‘You find him, Charlie. Find him and tell me who he is. I’ll take care of the rest.’
‘Stop there, John,’ Mark Whittaker warned. ‘Don’t say too much.’
Skinner ignored him. ‘Just like I’ve been doing for the past few days. Making things right. That’s real justice. Street justice.’
Godley was looking at him, curious. ‘Is that what you thought you were doing, John? Dispensing justice? What makes you think you know better than a judge and jury?’
‘Years of experience.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t want some of that power, Charlie. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t rub out a few people if you could have it done by lifting a finger and pointing.’
‘Is that what you’re going to do? Have him killed, this person who’s taken Cheyenne?’
‘Eventually.’ There was a world of meaning in that single word and I shivered.
‘You’re not going to be in a position to do anything of the kind.’ Derwent’s voice was silky. ‘What do you think you’re going to be able to achieve from prison?’
‘More than you.’ Skinner slammed his hands down on the table with a suddenness that made me jump. ‘You find him for me, Charlie, and when you do, there’ll be a proper reckoning. None of your law, your human rights bullshit. He’s going to pay for what he’s done to my girl. Even if you find her alive and well, I want him punished for taking her in the first place, and I want him punished my way. Nothing you can do will stop me.’
At that moment, someone tapped on the door, inches from my head. I stood and opened it at a brusque nod from Godley, slipping out to find Keith Bryce waiting in the corridor, struggling to catch his breath. He always looked miserable, but there was something desperate about him at that moment.
‘Is the boss free?’
‘Not unless it’s life or death.’
‘Better get him, then.’
I edged back around the door and caught Godley’s eye. I didn’t need to tell him he was wanted; he was already standing up.
‘Interview suspended at oh-nine-forty-three. Superintendent Godley leaving the room.’
The door closed behind him and I sat down, feeling highly conspicuous as the three men looked at the uninformative wood of the door by my right shoulder, waiting for Godley’s return. After a couple of minutes that seemed to last for years, he opened the door again and came in. His eyes went straight to Skinner, and his face told the story before he could say a word.
‘John, I’m so sorry.’
And at that, Skinner – the Met’s most-wanted criminal, the scourge of society, the brutal, unfeeling thug who had personally ordered the violent murders of three men that week alone – began to weep.
‘Will you walk into my parlour?’ said the Spider to the Fly,
‘’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I’ve many curious things to shew when you are there.’
‘Oh no, no,’ said the little Fly, ‘to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.’
I followed Godley through a gate that led into a bleak yard, hurrying to keep up, Derwent just behind me. The yard had been the car park and loading dock for the business that once occupied the warehouse. It was long gone, whatever it had been, and the painted markings on the ground had worn away, faded to ghosts. Weeds had taken hold where the concrete was cracked. They swayed in the light breeze that caught at the hem of my skirt and blew my hair across my mouth. I tucked a lock of it behind my ear and looked up at the warehouse building itself. It glowered back. The brickwork was stained and had split apart in several places, the mortar crumbling away like dust. Most of the windows were shattered, even those on the ground floor that were still protected by close-set iron bars. The loading bay’s shutter was so heavily rusted I doubted there was any need for the chain and padlock looped through the catch; it would never move again. There were other doors, though, other ways in, for us and for the pigeons that cooed and rustled on the high window ledges, and doubtless for the rats and spiders and beetles too.
In the shadow that fell across the far corner of the yard, a small knot of dark figures stood huddled together like mourners. Godley headed towards them and as we approached, they turned one by one to watch us. I might have felt self-conscious if I hadn’t known that everyone there was focused on the superintendent, not me or Derwent. He was still walking a pace or two behind me and I resisted the temptation to look around, to check out how he felt about the latest development. Neither he nor Godley had spoken in the car on the way over. It had felt like a long drive, though we had made good time.
There were four members of the team in the group in front of us, and they had collected together like oil coagulating in water. It was a tacit demonstration that they were with the others but not of them. The other five stood around exhibiting varying degrees of discomfort and hostility. Right in the middle, on her own, stood DCI Redmond, and my first thought was that in the two hours that had passed since I had seen her, she had aged years. Her face had fallen in on itself, the skin dragged down by disappointment and the slackening of tension that had in itself been almost unendurable.
‘Well?’ Godley’s tone was not reassuring and I saw her wince before she gathered herself to respond.
‘I wanted to take your team on a field trip so they could get a feel for the location where Cheyenne disappeared. That’s what we agreed – cover the ground again and see if anything new comes up.’
Godley nodded and she passed her tongue over her lips as if they were dry.
‘We got here about forty-five minutes ago. I walked them around the site. We didn’t go into all of the buildings because some of them are too dangerous.’
‘But they’d been searched before,’ Godley said, not quite making it a question.
‘Of course. The SOCOs went through the entire location, room by room.’
‘When?’
‘Last Sunday.’
‘Pictures?’
‘Yes. We can compare them – see what’s changed, if anything.’
‘Quite.’ The tiniest hint of impatience had crept into the superintendent’s demeanour – something about his stance, the angle of his head. Marla Redmond had noticed it too because her chin went up.
‘We fanned out to look around the main open space.’ She pointed. ‘That’s it behind you. There’s nothing in it but some old pallets and bits of furniture. I think it’s used as a doss house occasionally by the local tramps, but like I said, it’s a bit too draughty for comfort.’
‘Is that where the nightclub was?’
She turned the other way. ‘It was in this part of the premises. These were offices. That was the canteen, on the second floor, and that’s where they set up the club. The ceiling is low enough to be able to fit lights, apparently, and there’s a serving area they used as a bar.’
There was tin foil stuck to the windows she indicated. ‘Did they do that? Cover up the windows?’
She looked past Godley to where I was standing and nodded. ‘For privacy, and to block out the street lights, I think. It was just on this side, where the windows can be seen from the street. The other side of the room looks out on a blank wall.’
‘Did you go up there today?’ the superintendent asked.
Back to what you don’t want to talk about, Marla
…
‘We were just about to.’ She swallowed. ‘There’s a staircase that leads up from the warehouse floor to the office space in this part of the building. It’s got a window about halfway up, but not to the outside. It was the only source of natural light for the break room used by the warehouse workers. It’s practically the only unbroken window in the whole place, but it’s filthy with cobwebs and dust – you can hardly see through it.’