Out of the Ashes

by Vicky Newham

  Then they lobbed the canister back in the van and drove off the site. ‘We haven’t got the physical evidence but we’ve got a good view of it.’ Questions were circling through my mind. ‘So, Kenny and John – we think – killed Ryan and cut out his tongue somewhere else. At least we know that now. But why? And why choose the Manor House site as the place to dump the body?’

  Dan’s face was blank.

  ‘Where does the van go from Stepney?’ I asked. ‘If we can find that, it might lead us to the two men.’

  ‘The techs are still checking the footage,’ Alexej explained. ‘We’ve got them going east along Ben Jonson Road and south into Aston Street, but then they turn into the unoccupied part of the Ocean Estate and we lose them. The cameras aren’t maintained regularly there, and keep being vandalised. Lots of them on that part of the estate are badly positioned and out of focus.’

  ‘Bugger. That’s so frustrating. They must’ve known the CCTV’s bad there. Can the technicians enhance the images?’

  ‘They’re doing their best but they’re really blurry.’

  ‘Thanks, Alexej. Can you start comparing the photos of the men on the CCTV with Kenny and John’s photos? Keep checking other CCTV hosts for a clearer picture of their faces and the van.’ I turned to Jackie. ‘Dan and I will get over to the Manor House site and find out who the swipe card was issued to. If the photo-comparisons match up, can you do a media appeal for information on the whereabouts of Kenny and his brother?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘If that’s them on the CCTV, chances are, they’re linked to the arson too. We’re close to getting the full picture, I can feel it.’

  Finally, the net was closing in.

  Maya, 4 p.m.

  When Dan and I arrived at Manor House HQ in Docklands, rain was bouncing off the pavement. Wind came across the Thames in an icy wall and tore through the gaps in the buildings. Headless bodies crouched under flimsy umbrellas, and scuttled to their destinations.

  ‘It’s inevitable that Ryan’s body would trigger an internal investigation,’ Dan shouted over his shoulder as we entered the revolving glass doors. ‘So it bloody should.’

  We reported to security and signed in. The lift took us up to the sixth floor, where a twenty-something assistant was waiting for us as soon as the doors dinged open.

  ‘Hi. I’m Kirsty,’ she said with a very white smile. ‘Mr Mertens is waiting for you.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ I asked her.

  ‘Yves Mertens is our Group Director of Security. He flew over from Brussels yesterday because of the recent breach.’

  That sounded promising.

  When we arrived at his office, Kirsty showed us in and introduced us. Yves was a slim man in an understated navy suit and expensive black shoes. I recognised him as the person I’d seen talking to the media. ‘Detectives, please come in.’ He motioned towards a boardroom-type table which sat at the far end of the room, facing a bay of floor-to-ceiling windows.

  ‘This is a dreadful business,’ he said. ‘I’ve worked for the company for nine years and nothing like this has ever happened.’ He spoke perfect English with an American twang to his Belgian accent. He began pacing the carpet as he spoke. ‘We pride ourselves in having stringent security at all our developments. There’s no point me fudging the issue or making excuses. It’s clear there have been a number of serious breaches at the Manor House site.’ Yves signalled to Kirsty to bring them some water. ‘I’ve seen your TV appeal. This is tragic for Mr Ryan and his family, of course, but I’ll be frank with you. I am extremely concerned that any involvement with organised crime could harm Manor House’s reputation.’ He continued to pace. ‘We have a number of back-up cameras, some of which take still photographs. I’ve sent the images from those to your CCTV Control Room.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. I’d suspected that telling them about Kenny Hayes’ background would get things moving. ‘We are here to ask about the site’s entry system and how these men managed to get your barrier to let them in.’

  ‘Our HR department issues each member of staff with a unique ID card with a barcode. This acts as a swipe-card and lets them on site. Our security system records the details of every card that’s presented at the barrier. In 99.5% of cases, this leads to an individual member of staff. We have a few ID cards which are used for visitors. These are kept in the office at the gate. This was one of them. The men must have got their hands on one.’

  ‘How?’ I sat forward in my seat and directed my gaze straight at Yves.

  He jutted his jaw and looked awkward. ‘I don’t know but I intend to find out. I’ve asked my deputy to find out where all our visitor cards are. As soon as I heard what happened, I deactivated the card-reader and put two guards on the gate, on a twenty-four-hour shift pattern.’

  He’d acted promptly but it wasn’t going to be much consolation to Patrick Ryan’s family. ‘There aren’t too many options, surely? One or both men are Manor House staff. One of them has borrowed someone’s ID card. An ID card has been cloned or one has been modified to override your entry-system.’ I studied his body language. ‘Can you think of anything else?’

  ‘No. And each of those prospects makes me very uneasy.’ He paced over to one of the large windows and stared out over the Docks. ‘It could be carelessness. Someone goes to the bathroom and leaves a drawer unlocked? Someone’s bag is stolen, and it has their ID in it? I’m not making excuses, simply acknowledging that those things are possible.’ He faced us again. ‘What bothers me far more is whether either of these men have been on the company payroll.’ He was clearly shaken.

  Dan spoke. ‘Have your staff been debriefed and told to report anything suspicious?’

  ‘I was just discussing the best way of doing this with my team.’ He placed his hands on the table. ‘With the site closed, everyone is at home. We have a company website and portal, and all our personnel have work email accounts which they are required to check. Perhaps the Met can give us some input on what to do?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll put you in touch with our Incident Management team.’ I appreciated his cooperation. ‘Many of your staff will have seen the news on the television, including our appeals for information. The key thing to convey is that each person’s input is invaluable, however insignificant it may seem, and each person has a responsibility to say if they’ve been careless or lost their ID.’

  He was nodding.

  ‘How you deal with the consequences is none of our business, but someone must know if they lent their card, left a drawer unlocked or had their bag stolen.’

  Dan watched Yves Mertens. ‘I agree with Detective Rahman. I’d say there’s a high probability that one of your employees knows something. Wouldn’t you?’

  Maya, 6 p.m.

  As long as Kenny Hayes was on the streets, people were in danger.

  And we still hadn’t found Ali.

  After my shift finished, I was determined to keep checking places where someone might recognise one or both of them, in the hope that they would know where I could find them.

  This was my third Whitechapel hostel. The two previous ones had drawn a blank. Nicola had told us her husband had stayed here on many occasions. From the outside, it looked like an ordinary red brick building. A house, or small block of converted flats. I pressed the buzzer and was let in. Straight ahead was a glass-fronted reception and a melee of voices floated towards me. A male staff member was having a conversation with an irate male client a few metres ahead.

  ‘No, it isn’t alright,’ the man was saying, his expression intense and agitated. ‘I’m not leaving my stuff. Last time it got nicked.’

  The staff member saw me, and gestured to the door to the left of reception.

  I knocked on it. Leant through the half-open hatch and spoke to the lady who was sitting behind the glass. ‘I’m DI Rahman. I’m here to see Michael Reynolds.’

  ‘He won’t be a moment,’ she said, and pointed at a row of plastic chairs.

&nb
sp; When Michael Reynolds arrived, he had a kind face. He was wearing a black T-shirt with a Pink Floyd logo on the front and 1980 tour dates on the back. A thin ponytail of grey hair lay at the nape of his neck. ‘Hello,’ he said, and shook my hand. ‘You wanted to talk about Patrick Ryan? Let’s see if the kitchen’s free. Bit hard to find anywhere private in this place.’

  ‘Lead the way,’ I said, and followed him along the corridor.

  The staff kitchen was the size of a toilet and consisted of a stainless-steel sink, a worktop with a cupboard above it and a wall-mounted catering urn.

  I showed him the mug-shot of Ryan.

  ‘That’s him. Came here a lot. Nice fella. I heard the news report. Awful.’

  ‘We think that this man may have been involved in his death.’ This time I showed him Kenny Hayes. ‘Have you ever seen him? The scar on his neck is distinctive.’

  Michael shook his head. ‘Sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell.’

  ‘He’s got a younger brother. This is him.’ I got out John’s photograph. ‘They work together.’

  He looked blank.

  ‘Could you circulate these images amongst all your staff and volunteers, and to any other services they may have used? You never know. They may have been here once when you weren’t in.’

  ‘Sure. I should have a bit of time after we’ve done tea. I can start sending them round some of the other facilities in London.’ He was gazing at Patrick’s face. ‘I can’t believe it. He was enjoying his job when I last saw him, and was over the moon to be off the white stuff.’

  I nodded. ‘I can imagine. Did he . . . ?’ I stopped. ‘Excuse me. I need to take this call.’ My heart leaped up a gear. I stepped back into the corridor, my stomach doing somersaults. This was the news we’d been waiting for. We’d found Abbie Turner at last. ‘Alexej?’

  But they hadn’t found Abbie alive.

  They’d found a body.

  Maya, 7 p.m.

  At Duckett House, the crime scene cordons were already in place.

  ‘Scumbags. I told you. The flash mob at St Katherine’s Dock was a distraction.’ Dan sent a can flying with his foot.

  ‘Looks like it.’ We were round the other side of the estate to where we’d been previously.

  ‘This shithole’s a disgrace.’

  ‘Let’s get this over with.’ My stomach was a ball of dread.

  We reported to the scene guard.

  ‘We’ve had to extend the outer cordon, Ma’am,’ the uniformed officer told us. ‘A reporter got inside the block from the rear.’

  ‘You’re kidding. Who called 999?’ I half-knew what the answer was going to be.

  ‘Suzie James, Ma’am.’

  ‘Christ’s sake. That means she was in the building, in the dark, before the firearms officers had checked if there was an active shooter in there.’

  The guard nodded. ‘It was the first responder who called firearms. By then she’d left.’

  A few yards away, at the inner cordon, Dougie was waiting for us, shuffling from leg to leg, fury bursting from his craggy features. ‘You wait ’til I get my hands on her. Climbed through a sodding window.’ He clamped his hands to his face in exasperation. ‘What the hell was she thinking of? She’ll get herself shot one of these days.’

  ‘It would have to be her.’

  ‘Trampling all over the blood spatter and firearm discharge. She has about as much respect for forensic science as she does for ethical standards in journalism.’

  ‘Did she get near the body?’

  ‘She’s refusing to tell us on the grounds that we’ve stopped her from reporting on a matter which is of public interest. She rang emergency services and said the child was dead, so she must’ve been in the room with him.’

  ‘Let me speak to her. She’s been due a bollocking for a long time.’ I pointed at the flat. ‘What have we got?’

  Dougie looked from me to Dan. ‘You do know who it is in there, don’t you?’

  ‘I told her,’ Dan said.

  ‘Maya, are you sure you—?’

  ‘It’s my job.’ I held out my hand for protective clothing.

  ‘If you’re sure . . . ’ Dougie handed suits to us both. ‘Professional job, by the looks of it. Two shots. One to the head, one to the heart. And some writing on the wall.’

  ‘Ballistics here yet?’

  Dan and I pulled the forensic suits on.

  ‘Inside with Dr Clark and the forensic firearms expert. The blood pattern analyst is on her way.’

  ‘Have we got either of the bullets?’

  ‘Dr Clark suspects that one’s lodged in his heart muscle. If we can’t find the one that went through his head, he’s going to remove the other one when he does the PM.’

  ‘Be good if we can identify the firearm.’

  ‘Even better if we can find it but right now there’s little chance of either.’ Dougie was shaking his head.

  ‘What did he say that day we bumped into him in Brick Lane?’ I turned to Dan.

  ‘Kyle’s going to kill me.’

  ‘And Kyle is Kenny. Kenny bloody Hayes did this, I bet you.’ Suddenly, guilt bit at me. ‘I sent Social Services to the squat. I thought I was protecting them.’

  ‘You were,’ Dougie said, grabbing my arm. ‘It was the right thing to do.’

  ‘So much for doing the right bloody thing.’ I pulled away from him. ‘What it did was send Ali Kousa to his death.’

  ‘Maya, you followed procedures.’ Dan was agreeing with Dougie. ‘Minors were living in a squat with Class A drugs, ammo and firearms. What else could you do but phone it in? And Ali had left before that.’

  ‘Maybe, but we didn’t follow procedures when we entered the squat, did we? We should’ve called for back-up. He wouldn’t have run off then and he’d still be alive.’

  ‘We thought we were going to a family flat where Ali and Riad lived,’ said Dan, ‘not a junky squat for homeless kids.’

  ‘He took off because we scared him and now he’s dead.’ In my mind’s eye, I could see Ali’s face. Vulnerable and scared. I heard the fear in his voice when he talked to me.

  ‘Look, Maya. We sprung them, and he shot through. It’s as simple as that. It was the situation that scared him, not us.’ Dan flung his arms in the air. ‘C’mon. Let’s do what we’ve got to do here and get out of this place. It gives me the creeps.’

  ‘If we’d looked for him more, things might’ve been different. Abbie Turner went missing and we launched a manhunt. Ali went missing and we did nothing.’ I felt like screaming at Dan for not helping me. For insisting that we focussed on Kelly Turner and Kenny Hayes. ‘Why? Because he’s Syrian?’ I faced Dan and met his eyes. ‘Because he was so scared in his own country, he came here illegally?’

  ‘Yes. That is partly why. And I think it sucks too.’ He met my gaze, unflinching. ‘But it was also because Abbie is the daughter of one of our arson victims. Ali wasn’t. And Abbie is much younger. I know you’re angry with me, but I still believe it was the right decision.’

  ‘And now he’s dead.’ I hated hearing us talk in the past tense.

  Dougie placed his hand on my shoulder. ‘Dan’s right, Maya,’ he said softly. ‘You looked for Ali as much as you could. Everyone’s sorry we didn’t find him. C’mon.’ He steered me towards the common approach path and into the squat.

  Inside, the CSIs had rigged up lights. Like the flat we’d been to previously, there was no electricity and no heating. Three plastic garden chairs were scattered about the room. Cardboard boxes were stacked flat against a graffiti-sprayed wall. A sleeping bag lay over the top of the boxes with a bin liner. On the opposite side of the room, a king-size mattress lay – filthy and stained – on a layer of grey breeze-blocks, butting up against the concrete render of the wall. Lying on his back, in the middle of the mattress, in a sticky mass of congealing blood, was ten-year-old Ali Kousa. In the centre of his forehead, a bullet wound was matted with blood and his child’s features were contorted into a hideous expression of ag
ony.

  I gasped. It was a truly awful way to die.

  Dr Clark was taking fingerprints from the body. ‘That’s one entry wound. Straight through and out the other side.’

  Under the bright artificial lights, the pool of blood beneath his head looked black.

  ‘Where’s the bullet?’

  ‘We’re not sure if it’s in the mattress or somewhere else in the room.’

  To the left of Ali’s chest, another bullet had torn through his sweatshirt and ripped a hole in his heart. ‘Whoever fired these bullets knew exactly where to place them. This isn’t a murder. It’s an assassination.’ I looked away, biting back tears. ‘Any idea as to the type of firearm?’

  ‘Kevin says it’s likely to be a pistol.’

  Around the room the CSIs were photographing the blood spatter and marking out the angles, trajectory and pattern with string. Another CSI was spraying luminol. On the wall, the words the killer had scrawled in blood, seemed a cruel irony.

  STREET RAT

  A dart of fierce anger jabbed at me. ‘Poor kid. He escapes from Syria and manages to get himself to the UK, and he ends up getting drawn into God knows what, living in a squat with a load of junkies and having his brains blasted out.’ I took in the room. The bucket in the corner. The empty dope bags on the floor. The used syringe on the ground by the mattress. ‘What the hell did he do to deserve this?’ I was struggling to keep my composure.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, at least he’ll have died quickly.’ Dr Clark’s face was pale. ‘He’ll have been unconscious almost immediately, and bled out in minutes.’

  ‘What Jackie said is right, Maya,’ Dan said. ‘This is organised crime. These kids are being groomed and exploited because they’re desperate.’

  Their words washed over me as something caught my attention. On the mattress, one of Ali’s feet was bare where his shoe had come off. Had there been a struggle? Had he been overpowered? Then, on the concrete floor, I saw his trainer. It was a dirty white with broken laces.

  And was so small.

  ‘Street rats.’