by Vicky Newham
She returned her attention to the monitor. ‘One was Adrian Parry. The second was Mrs Nicola Grant.’
‘Where is Mr Parry from? Is that a work reference?’
‘From Zentralbank. He listed them as his last employer and Mr Parry as his manager there.’
‘Wasn’t Nicola Grant a personal referee?’
‘Yes. His ex-wife. One of his referees declined to submit, so we needed another. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be allowed to give you this information but under the circumstan—’
‘Of course. What’s the name of the person who declined?’
‘Nilufar Ahmed.’
‘What grounds did she give?’ Dan tapped her name into his phone.
‘None. If you don’t want to provide a reference, you simply decline. You don’t have to say why.’
‘Fair enough. What was her connection with him?’
‘She was a Project Co-ordinator at Coley Lane youth centre. He’d been volunteering there.’
What had gone on there? Dan wondered. ‘I’ll need her contact details, please.’
Tina clicked a few keys and the printer clunked into action.
‘Last question. This is important. Can you think of anything that might link Ryan to protests about gentrification? Did he ever make any comments about Tower Hamlets getting posh and too expensive for people to live?’ He was looking at her perplexed face.
‘Not that I know of. Perhaps someone at the site might know?’
‘Nothing about Ryan and fire?’
Her eyes widened. ‘Gosh, no.’
Dan gave her his contact card, but didn’t feel very hopeful that Tina Sands could help them further. He hurried out of the building, humming with impatience because he had no signal on his phone. At ground level, it returned to four bars. He dialled the incident room. As he conveyed the news about Nilufar, he felt anticipation tickle.
You didn’t refuse to give a reference without a good reason.
Maya, 10.30 a.m.
Overnight, elements of the media had gone to town on the Manor House murder, and Suzie James was at the front of the pack. She’d got wind of Ryan’s drug problems and homelessness, and had written a vicious piece with the headline, LOCAL DRUG ADDICT MURDERED – IS HE THE BRICK LANE ARSONIST? The City Eye was leading with PANIC OVER CRIME WAVE.
When I arrived in Stepney, I was relieved to see that the crime scene was still cordoned off. Several metres back, reporters and journalists were jostling to interrogate a man with a poker face and a sharp suit. He had a heavy accent and was doing a good job of fielding questions with broken record responses.
Robert Johnson, the site foreman, was standing at the hoardings and seemed to be in a better frame of mind today. He wasn’t shouting into his phone, but he still looked as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He gestured to the media. ‘Some of them have been here all bloody night. It’ll be a five-minute segment on the news, that’s all, then onto the next person whose life has been ruined.’
‘Yup.’ I smiled in sympathy.
‘One of them caught some of my lads in the Half Moon last night. Dredging around for gossip.’ He shot the news crews a dirty look. ‘I knew there’d be a feeding-frenzy once they got wind of the drugs and hospital stuff.’
Suzie, no doubt. ‘I need to ask a few more questions about Patrick Ryan. Did he have any disagreements with anyone on site?’
Robert screwed his face up to think. ‘Not that I’m aware of. He was a good sub-foreman. The lads respected him. Knew he wasn’t from a construction background, but they liked him. It’s a busy site. There are billions of pounds riding on this project. We all have the occasional spat, but I’ve been here all the time Patrick has, and I’ve never seen anything get any further than a bit of swearing when someone’s knackered.’
My gut feeling was that he was telling the truth.
‘How did he seem recently? Anything different?’
‘He’d started helping out at some of the local youth clubs. Mentoring some of the kids and giving talks on drugs. Said he was pleased if his experiences could help them to stay safe.’ He smiled. ‘It was refreshing to see him buzzing.’ Then Robert’s face changed. ‘A couple of times he seemed agitated though. I asked if he was OK, and he said something unpleasant had happened.’
This was what Nicola had told us. ‘Did he say what?’
‘A complaint, I think. He downplayed it, but the fact he mentioned it a few times, I could tell he was shaken.’ He stared into the distance at the large crane underneath which the body had been dumped. ‘What did he say now? Something about the past “rearing its head”.’
‘Did he say which clubs he’d been volunteering with?’
Robert shook his head. ‘Sorry. There are so many round here. A lot of parents are struggling. It’s amazing how youth clubs have reinvented themselves to fill the gaps. My kids love them.’
‘That’s OK. I’ll ask about. Last thing – what are the night security arrangements here? Who’s on site?’
‘We have twenty-four-hour security. We have to. On a few occasions we’ve had the place broken into. Idiots who are bored or off their heads. Youngsters’ high jinks and showing off. We’ve had equipment vandalised. The cranes are a favourite with the urb-ex crowd, and we get graffiti on the hoardings at least once a week.’ He pointed at the latest tags, sprayed in red, purple, black, green and blue aerosol paint. He glanced over at the media. ‘On occasions, it’s targeted crime.’
‘Targeted by who?’ I thought about the flash mob.
‘Several groups have opposed the project from the start. ‘Most of it’s low-level. Placards. Loud-speakers. That sort of thing. The most vociferous are the ones who don’t understand that private developments can help fund regeneration. They think all housing should be affordable.’
‘Surely the issue is that there’s no affordable provision here? It’s all high-end.’ I cast about for signs of vandalism. ‘Wait. That tag on your hoardings.’ I pointed at round letters sprayed in black aerosol. ‘Is LfA one of the groups opposed to the development?’
The foreman followed my arm line. ‘Too right.’ His face clouded over. ‘Nasty outfit they are too. If there’s one group involved with criminal activity, it’s them.’
Dan, 11.15 a.m.
On the drive over to Nicola Grant’s flat in Mile End, Dan replayed in his head the conversation he’d just had with Shen. Nilufar Ahmed had sacked Patrick Ryan because a youth lodged a complaint about him. When she investigated the complaint, her colleagues said Ryan had become aggressive with the youth, and there had been mention of drugs. She hadn’t cited the youth’s name as ‘John’ but she had said he was tall and thin. If this was Kenny’s brother John, it was evidence not just that they knew each other, but they’d had a serious falling out.
Nicola was in trackie dacks and a hoodie when Dan arrived, and had just got home. ‘I nipped into Waitrose after yoga.’ She had a couple of supermarket bags in her hands.
Dan followed her into the immaculate kitchen.
She plonked the shopping on a worktop and flicked the kettle on to boil.
‘I wanted to ask a few more questions about Patrick.’ Dan strained his ears for sounds of the girls. ‘Are the kids at school?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know who Patrick got his drugs from?’
She let out a long sigh. ‘It wasn’t something he was open about, for obvious reasons, and he made sure the girls and I didn’t meet the people involved. Twice, though, I did. On one occasion, some dodgy bloke with a cut on his face turned up at our house. The other was when we were out, having a pub meal, and a man approached us.’
‘Someone came to the house?’
‘Yes. Ordinary guy. Dirty hair. Off his head and ranting, claiming that Patrick owed him money. That was all I could make out. Patrick was at work and I had no idea how the man got our address. I was terrified. The cut on his face was gushing with blood, and it looked like he’d been in a fight and had his f
ace slashed. Luckily, Amanda was staying with a friend overnight.’ Nicola began unpacking the shopping. ‘I was furious that this man had come to our home. I have no idea who he was or whether Patrick really owed him money. When you get caught up in the drug world, you never know who is telling the truth, and unpleasant things can happen any time.’
From the harrowed expression on her face, Dan could see she was speaking from experience. ‘What happened?’
‘I threatened to call the police and managed to persuade him to leave. Rang Patrick and told him what had happened. He came racing home about twenty minutes later and went straight out, presumably to find the guy. I asked him what the man wanted, and he refused to talk about it. Just said he wouldn’t bother us again.’ Nicola shrugged. ‘After that, I learnt not to ask any questions. Our relationship wasn’t sustainable, of course. Quite apart from how drugs affect a person’s moods, living with someone who has a secret life means that you continually feel anxious.’ Her elegant features looked haunted by memories. ‘You are always waiting for that phone call, that knock on the door.’ She paused, a tin of baked beans in her hand. ‘We split up soon after that. I couldn’t take it.’ She shoved the tin in the cupboard and covered her face with splayed fingers.
It must’ve been awful for Nicola. Aroona would’ve gone apeshit if that had been him. ‘And who was the other guy you encountered when you were out?’
‘This was quite soon after we got together and before I learnt that Patrick had started taking coke. We were in a pub, having a meal one Saturday evening. We were eating, and this young chap sidled up to our table, asked Patrick if he had everything he needed for the weekend.’
‘Asking if Patrick was looking to score, you mean?’
‘Yeah. Or letting him know that he knew where to find us. And me.’ Her eyes were wide with fear and it was obvious that the memory hadn’t left her.
‘That must’ve been scary.’ Dan felt for Nicola, living under that sort of tension. Perhaps one of Patrick’s old drug associates had killed him? ‘Can you describe this fella?’
‘He sounded pretty posh. Floppy hair on top, short at the sides. Public school accent. Not your average junkie.’
‘What happened?’
‘Patrick leaped up and steered the bloke away from our table and when he came back, he waffled on about him being some ‘random’ and not to worry about it. It wasn’t until a few months later that I made the connection with drugs.’ She switched the kettle on to boil again, having got distracted. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Please.’ Dan waited a moment. ‘Can you think who might want to hurt Patrick?’
She was silent while she poured milk into the mugs and thought about the question. ‘No. Sorry. I’m beginning to wonder if I knew much about his life recently. He was aware he’d hurt me, and he kept a lot of secrets. When he was on the streets, he must’ve come into contact with hundreds of people. Everyone’s fighting to stay alive. Who knows who might have taken against him?’
Dan wasn’t looking forward to asking his next two questions. ‘We know that Patrick had a row with a fifteen-year-old guy at a youth club. This lad filed a formal complaint about him, and he lost his volunteer post. Do you know anything about this?’ He was careful here not to mention the Hayes brothers.
She drummed her fingers on the worktop. ‘He told me he was volunteering there and some weeks later said he’d been sacked. He was cagey about it, and it made me wonder whether he’d got back into drugs.’
‘Drugs were mentioned, but Patrick strongly denied all the allegations.’
‘Christ. It gets worse and worse.’ She pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and thumped down on it. ‘As if him being killed isn’t bad enough. It’s upsetting for his family to have all this crap dragged up again. Did you see what that bloody reporter wrote in the local paper?’ She covered her face. ‘Amanda saw it. Read every word.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He gave her a few moments, and then said, ‘Did anything happen, or did he mention anything about drugs, that made you believe he’d got back into them?’
She was shaking her head, and through a voice thick with distress, said, ‘That’s what I don’t understand. I kept asking him. Each time he said no, he was never going back.’ She faced me now, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘And each time I believed him.’
Dan nodded. ‘I’ve got a couple more questions, then I’ll leave you in peace. Has Patrick ever been in trouble for starting a fire?’
She recoiled at the question. ‘No-o.’ Her tone was suspicious. Irritated. ‘You don’t think he was involved with the arson, do you?’
‘We’re pursuing a number of hypotheses.’ They weren’t going public with the mask and tongue elements of the crime yet so as to reduce the likelihood of copycat crimes and false confessions. ‘Do you know if he had much to do with internet forums and social action?’
Nicola sipped her tea and muttered to herself. ‘I’m finding this all rather upsetting. Fires. The internet. Flash mobs. None of them sound like the Patrick I knew, but he may have changed when he was homeless. Perhaps he used the internet for drugs? When we saw him, I didn’t think he had changed fundamentally. He was always a decent person. But I did notice edges, little things. You know? He was less trusting, a bit more defensive, always watching over his shoulder. I don’t think you can go through addiction, psychiatric hospital, homelessness and going cold turkey without it having a permanent effect on you. But he always was a bit of a revolutionary.’ She passed Dan a mug and he caught the sorrow in her eyes. ‘If he didn’t think something was right, he would say so. He told me once that when he was on the streets, he saw a load of things which really upset him, and had wanted to step in, but he’d had to pretend he hadn’t seen them, to avoid having the shit kicked out of him.’ Her gaze was lowered now and her voice was a whisper. ‘I can’t imagine how hard he must’ve found that.’
Maya, 11.15 a.m.
‘If your death wasn’t connected to the arson, why would the murderer cut your tongue out, tie a mask over your mouth and pour petrol over you?’ I was muttering to myself in front of the boards. ‘And why leave you there?’
In the most recent photograph, Ryan was at the Old Manor House site in his hard hat and fluorescent jacket, surrounded by cranes and digging equipment, and fully focussed on the labourers he was briefing. His posture was confident, and his face had a warmth which suggested pride and trust. In the next image, Ryan was sitting on the sofa with Nicola, head thrown back in laughter while he tickled his daughter, Amanda. The third showed Ryan on the streets, dirt-clumped hair, greyed-out features and greasy clothes.
‘I’ve heard of talking to yourself but having a chat with the dead is in another league.’ Jackie handed me a doughnut in a paper bag, and gave me a knowing smile. ‘How’s it going?’
‘It looks like Ryan knew Kenny Hayes and his brother.’ I bit into the sugary dough.
‘We’ve all been convinced Hayes is involved in this investigation somehow.’
‘What I’m struggling to understand is what his motivation could be.’ I stuffed another piece of doughnut in my mouth. ‘Instinct tells me it’s likely to be money—’
‘It’s always money with him. It’s all he cares about.’
‘I’ve double-checked that Hayes isn’t doing time.’ Alexej had overheard our conversation. ‘There’s no mention of him being in prison. He’s not on benefits under that name, so no registered address is a possibility. With all the money he’s made, I doubt he’s actually homeless.’ He pointed at the long list of previous addresses. ‘This is the most recent mugshot of him. I’ll print it.’ He pointed at the image on his monitor of a tall, spindly man.
I picked up the photograph from the printer tray and pinned it to the board under his name. There were thin white scars on his scalp and a large tattoo of a woman screaming, naked and bleeding, stretched from his right ear down to his neckline. Part of the tattoo design had either faded or been hacked away at. Beneath a sha
ved head, pinched features and dead eyes were set into a small skull. ‘He’s not someone you’d forget meeting in a dark alley, is he? Even with a disguise, or changing his appearance, you wouldn’t miss those eyes. And it’d be hard to cover the tattoo.’ I turned to face Alexej. ‘Any response from the public on him?’
‘Not yet. But he operates in the shadows. I can’t see him being skint, so my hunch is that he’s lying low. He’s probably living amongst families who have absolutely no idea what he’s capable of.’
A shudder went down my spine.
‘Hayes has been extremely lucky,’ Jackie said. ‘He was arrested in 2012 in Manchester for aggravated assault and GBH, but there wasn’t enough evidence to charge him, and in 2015 he was thought to be involved in the beating of a prostitute who was part of a European trafficking ring in Salford. The girl was found in a public toilet, practically unconscious, head shoved down the loo pan. Someone had given her a beating, and slashed her face with a razor blade. She lost the sight in one eye as a result. Same thing happened: insufficient evidence to charge him. Grainy CCTV footage from the toilets, circumstantial evidence, the CPS said, and the girls involved were deemed to be unreliable witnesses.’
I groaned. What Jackie said didn’t surprise me, but it was depressing. ‘Another misogynist who sees women as dispensable commodities. Scumbag. I hope our hunch is right, and he is involved with these murders so that we can get him off the streets once and for all.’ The tattoo was vile. ‘Someone has to spot Hayes soon. I can’t see him sitting still. He’ll be out and about, checking up on people and keeping an eye out for kids and women who are vulnerable.’
‘Thing is – he uses so many aliases, people might not know it’s him,’ said Jackie.
I stared at the photograph from when Ryan was homeless. ‘Christ. Ryan looks half-dead in that picture of him at Waterloo.’ He was on a bench with Nicola Grant. Filthy, ripped clothes. Sores speckled his dirty face and hopelessness seeped from every pore. ‘Look at the difference between then and now. The Manor House job saved his life.’