Know No Evil

by Hampton Graeme

  ‘I did,’ said Molly. ‘For about a day.’

  Trudi laughed. ‘Well, you’ve got to die of something.’ She looked up at the sky and screwed her eyes. ‘Christ. A day like this, we should be sunning our arses on a beach, not stuck in this shit hole.’

  Molly smiled her agreement. ‘I know. It’s just heaven.’ She’d spent her childhood in Australia, where hot summers weren’t even worthy of comment. Days like these made her yearn for the Sydney lido. ‘How’s life in the glamorous world of MIT?’ she asked.

  ‘A young woman has been found strangled and battered to death in Haggerston Park. And in the middle of summer too; some people have no consideration.’

  Molly pulled a face. ‘Shit. Nasty.’ She flicked some ash into the metal cigarette bin on the wall beside the door to the custody suite. ‘Any leads?’

  Trudi kept her face pointed at the sun. ‘Not sure yet. Apparently the new boy’s calling the shots.’

  ‘New boy?’

  Trudi took another long drag on her ciggie. ‘DI Matthew Denning. You must have seen him around?’ She cocked her head in Molly’s direction. ‘He looks like a frigging ad for Hugo Boss.’

  ‘I can’t say I have, but you lot in MIT are slightly aloof from the rest of us humble drones in regular CID.’

  Trudi let out another coarse laugh. A couple of uniformed officers looked over at them, wrinkling their brows as they passed. ‘Yeah, that’s us all right. Aloof!’

  ‘So what’s he like then, this Denning bloke?’

  ‘Well, I reckon you wouldn’t chuck him out of bed.’

  They both laughed this time.

  ‘What does he think?’ Molly asked, making it sound casual.

  Trudi took another long drag on her cigarette. ‘Early days. I just had a quick word with Deep Neeraj and he reckons it’s the work of a psycho.’ She paused, looking at the cigarette in her hand. ‘Well, actually he told my cleavage, but you get the picture.’

  Molly remembered DS Neeraj from a DI’s leaving do at Easter: he’d fancied his chances almost as much as he fancied himself. ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘He told me it’s pretty nasty.’ She waved her cigarette at Molly. ‘Denning’s about to call a briefing, so I thought I’d grab some fresh air first.’

  ‘You and me both.’

  Trudi flicked ash onto the bonnet of a squad car. ‘What about you? How’s it going on the drugs case?’

  Molly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Adam Sloane? Poor kid’s still in a coma. Doctors reckon it was a dodgy E. Mummy claims he must have been tricked into taking it, but there’s no greater denial than a mother’s blindness.’ She looked at Trudi and frowned, then added: ‘They don’t know if he’ll pull through.’

  Trudi shook her head. ‘Do you know who supplied the gear?’

  ‘Oh, we know all right, we just can’t prove anything.’

  ‘Usual suspects?’

  ‘Yup.’ Molly pulled a face. ‘Gregor Kane’s gang have been supplying kids all over the Ashbrook Estate, not to mention half the schools in east London. Maybe if we had more resources, we might actually be able to do something about it. As it is, we’re pissing against a hurricane. And Kane knows it.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Kane’s a bottom feeder: he’s not a big enough player to attract the attention of the big boys in Trident, so we’re left to clean up the mess with all the limited resources of an overstretched CID.’

  Trudi took a last, deep draw on her cigarette. She slowly exhaled the smoke in a long thin stream.

  ‘Kane isn’t bulletproof,’ she said ‘No matter what he or his scumbag family think.’ Trudi dropped the cigarette butt onto the tarmac and twisted it under the heel of her shoe.

  ‘I dunno. So far the only witness – the boy’s best mate – is keeping tight-lipped. Kane isn’t stupid. He knows how to cover his arse.’

  ‘He’s had enough practice.’ Trudi put a hand on Molly’s arm. ‘Word of advice: don’t take this crap so seriously. The minute you let it get to you here,’ she jabbed her thumb against her temple, ‘you’re fucked.’

  Molly tried to smile. ‘I know you’re right. It’s just…’ She paused. ‘Perhaps I need a night out to remind me that there’s life beyond the grind.’

  Trudi was about to say something when her phone beeped. She glanced down at a text message, squinting slightly as the sun gleamed off the screen. ‘I need to get back up there, briefing’s about to start. We’ll catch up over a pint this weekend, yeah?’

  ‘Sure.’ She watched Trudi head back towards the door to the custody suite. She keyed in the security code, pulled open the heavy metal door and disappeared inside the building.

  Molly took her time finishing her ciggie. It had been her New Year’s resolution to give up smoking, as it had been the previous year, and the year before that…

  She ground the stub against a wall and dropped it into the metal bin. Despite the heat, she shivered.

  Trudi’s words danced round her brain like a dervish: a young woman… strangled and battered to death… in the middle of summer too… A horrible image flashed into her head, bleak and vivid.

  She closed her eyes and tried to block the mental picture from her head.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Close the door.’ DCI Liz McKenna’s office was small but tidy. It was separated from the main MIT room by half-glassed walls and grubby venetian blinds. A desk fan whirred rhythmically from the top of a filing cabinet, circulating warm air around the room. Behind the fan a sad-looking cyclamen gasped for breath.

  Denning felt a thin bead of sweat gather on his forehead. As he sat down opposite McKenna, his right temple started to throb.

  He had just finished briefing his team; filling them in on what they knew so far. What little they knew… He had been on his way back to his desk when McKenna had appeared and jerked her head in the direction of her office.

  McKenna didn’t seem to notice the heat. She was dressed in a crisp, black and white striped blouse and faded grey jeans. A battered leather biker’s jacket hung on a peg on the back of her office door. Her face was heavily lined, making her look closer to sixty than fifty, though Denning reckoned she was probably somewhere in between.

  ‘I won’t fanny about, Matt,’ she said. ‘I know you’re new, both to this particular MIT and the rank of inspector. I won’t lie and say you were my first choice for the job, but you’re here, you’re bright and you’ve got a solid track record: your work with South East MIT at Lewisham clearly impressed all the right people in the right places, and I’m told you get the job done with little fuss and flannel. All of which are major points in your favour as far as I’m concerned.’ McKenna’s rasping voice was like a rusty nail on a broken harpsichord. Denning spotted an unopened packet of cheroots on her desk, next to a cracked mug, which smelt faintly of Glenmorangie. ‘However, your old boss at Lewisham did express concerns about you not being a team player. This job is teamwork, Matt. I can’t stress that enough.’

  ‘I appreciate that I might have come across like that before, but that isn’t the case any more. I’ve learned about teamwork, and I accept it’s part of the job.’ In the past two years he’d been on so many team-building exercises he reckoned he could almost build a catamaran from Lego blindfolded.

  ‘Whatever the case, I like to give people the benefit of the doubt,’ she continued, ‘until they persuade me otherwise.’

  Most of what Denning knew about Liz McKenna came courtesy of hearsay and office gossip. Someone had told him she originally hailed from Motherwell and had cut her teeth in one of the roughest parts of Glasgow, allegedly making headlines when she’d stopped an armed robbery in a betting shop with nothing more than a baton and sheer nerve. At some point in her illustrious career she’d gained the nickname Betty Taggart.

  ‘Thank you for the vote of confidence, ma’am.’

  McKenna winced. ‘Don’t call me “ma’am”, I’m not Helen Mirren.’ Her accent was a curious hybrid of Glas
wegian and estuary English; it sounded oddly mellifluous. ‘This is your chance to show us what you can do. Don’t let me down.’

  ‘I don’t intend to,’ he said coldly. ‘I expect this to be a relatively straightforward case.’

  McKenna fixed him with a gimlet stare. ‘In my experience, murder is rarely as straightforward as it first appears.’ He could feel her eyes boring into him, almost willing him to challenge her. ‘Try adopting a more open-minded approach and don’t make too many assumptions. And, let’s be blunt, until we can ID the victim, we’re pissing in the dark.’

  Denning felt the throbbing in his temple grow more pronounced. His former boss at Lewisham MIT had often warned him against appearing over confident. Was he coming across as too over confident now? *Arrogant even…? Would a note of humility strike a better chord? *

  ‘I’ve asked DS Neeraj and DC Bell to get onto Missing Persons,’ he said. ‘Somebody has to be missing our victim. She’s someone’s daughter.’

  McKenna let his comment hang in the heavy air. ‘Identification has to be our priority at this stage,’ she said after a moment. ‘We need to catch this bastard quickly. I’ve called a media briefing for this afternoon. As Senior Investigating Officer, I’ll be handling all media liaison, but I’ll ensure you stay up to speed with everything. At this stage, we’ll stick to the basic facts, nothing more. Convince them we’ve got a lead, even if that isn’t the case.’ She paused. ‘As far as the press is concerned, we’re all over this like a dose of the clap.’ He watched her eyes flick from him to the unopened packet of cheroots on the desk, then back to him. ‘One more thing, Matt. I want DS Neeraj to deputise you.’

  ‘Sorry, but I’m not sure…’

  ‘Look, I know Deep can be a bit of a knob, but he’s a good officer, and he knows his way around a murder inquiry.’

  ‘With respect, I don’t think Neeraj and I have the greatest working relationship.’ Denning looked at her, trying not to focus on the pain in his temple. The bead of sweat on his forehead was in danger of turning into a trickle. ‘I get the impression he resents me.’

  McKenna smiled, showing uneven teeth, yellowing and slightly feral. ‘It’s no secret he put in for the inspector’s job. He’s been here eight years, he’s done the leg work and even shown initiative on the odd occasion. I reckon he thought the job was a shoo-in.’ She sat back in her chair and steepled her hands under her chin. ‘You’ve been parachuted in over his head because these days the Met has a thing for fast-tracked graduates with flashy degrees in psychobabble.’ She leant forward, placing her palms on the desk. ‘Diversity may be terribly fashionable, but we all know what really helps get a leg-up in this game is being white and having a dick.’

  Denning swallowed the temptation to point out McKenna had done all right for herself, despite only ticking one of the diversity boxes, perhaps two if you pushed it… But she was being unfair. He’d joined the Met straight after university and after six months on their training programme had been promoted to DS. At thirty-three he was aware that he was probably one of the youngest DIs in the Met, but he’d earned his promotion, and nobody could claim otherwise.

  ‘I’m not going to apologise for my background.’

  ‘Keep your tights on, son. I’m not asking you to like Neeraj, just work with him. Maybe you could learn something from each other.’

  There was a knock on the door. Trudi Bell stuck her blonde-bobbed head into the office. ‘Sorry to interrupt, boss, but we’ve got a name from MisPer. A Leanne Wyatt was reported missing by her mum, Susan Wyatt, about twenty minutes ago – it’s only just come up on the system. She’s twenty-one years old, slim-build and dyed blonde hair. Lives on the Beaverbrook estate in Hackney. It fits our girl, boss.’

  McKenna drummed her nicotine-stained fingers on the unopened packet of cheroots. ‘Leanne Wyatt… Why does that name ring a bell, DC Bell?’

  Trudi twitched back a grimace, then said, ‘Leanne Wyatt is, was, the girlfriend of Gregor Kane.’

  McKenna stopped the finger drumming. She sat back in her chair again and gave a throaty sigh. ‘Fuck, that’s all we bloody need!’

  Chapter Four

  ‘Gregor Kane is a right piece of shit.’ Neeraj was chattier now, but Denning could sense there was still an edge about him. He’d spent most of the journey to Susan Wyatt’s house filling Denning in on office gossip and refusing to make eye contact. Denning wanted to say something, apologise perhaps, for having taken a job that Neeraj had evidently assumed was going to be his. But another part of him refused to see why he should feel the need to apologise for being good at his job. Instead, he simply nodded, smiled and concentrated on the road ahead.

  Despite the air conditioning being on full blast, it was still uncomfortably warm in the car.

  Neeraj popped an Extra Strong Mint into his mouth, without offering Denning one. ‘You must have heard of his old man, Alfie Kane? King Alfie, as he likes to be known.’

  Denning had heard stories about the Kane family, none of them good, and certainly nothing that could ever be put before a jury. Rumours and hearsay, but Kane was always clever enough to hide his tracks.

  Neeraj snorted and noisily crunched the mint. ‘Alfie Kane runs a haulage business based out in Braintree, but he’s from round here originally. The business is supposedly all legit. We’ve never managed to nail him for anything, and probably never will. He’s smart… shrewd, in a cunning dog sort of a way.’ He crunched the mint some more, before continuing. ‘There was a rumour he was using the lorry business as a cover to smuggle illegals into the UK, but nothing could be proved. If you ask me, he’s just a player with an ego but he’s earned himself a reputation.’

  A reputation…?’ Denning slowed for a red traffic light.

  ‘A rival firm went bust a few years back. Their premises were torched in what looked like an insurance job, only the insurance company wouldn’t pay out. Alfie Kane took over most of their contracts.’

  ‘Coincidence?’

  ‘Could be. Naturally enough nothing could be linked to Kane, at least not officially. But there were rumours.’

  There were always rumours when it came to men like Alfie Kane. Denning had met numerous Alfie Kanes over the years. Men like Kane attracted rumours: a combination of jealousy and urban myth. However, rumours didn’t prove he was a criminal. ‘What about Gregor Kane?’

  Denning turned off Balls Pond Road and headed down a narrow street lined with tall Victorian houses on one side and a block of modern Lego-like flats on the other. A notice attached to one of them advertised the starting prices at just under a million. ‘Ideal for first-time buyers,’ it stated, without any sense of irony.

  ‘Gregor is the baby of the family. Alfie’s missus had him when she was well over forty,’ Neeraj continued. ‘His first arrest was five years ago for assaulting a kid in a McDonald’s. The kid lost an eye. Nearly lost his life too. Apparently he’d “disrespected” Kane in front of some girl. The case was dropped after the kid’s family withdrew the complaint. Since then Kane’s been in and out of trouble. Mostly GBH, intimidation, that kind of thing.’ He finished eating the mint. ‘He keeps himself busy these days selling drugs to local schoolkids; got quite a racket going by all accounts. But just like his old man, the shit never sticks.’

  * * *

  Susan Wyatt lived on the ground floor of a square, concrete four-storey block in Dalston. Denning guessed it had been built sometime in the 1970s: an era when functionality took precedence over style. To her credit, she’d made some effort to keep the exterior neat, with a bright basket hanging beside the front door and a couple of cheery tubs by the doorstep. As he rang the bell, Denning was sure he saw neighbours’ curtains twitching.

  The door was opened by a woman in her mid-to-late forties, with a trendy hairstyle that trimmed a few years off her age, but a heavily lined face that put them back on despite a generous application of make-up. She offered them a cautious look, as though she half-expected trouble to come knocking from time to time
.

  Denning and Neeraj flashed their warrant cards and explained who they were.

  She showed them into a compact but pleasantly furnished living room; there were over-sized knick-knacks everywhere, cheap and tasteless but somehow managing to make the place seem homely. A chintzy sofa and two matching armchairs were positioned around a large, flat-screen television. ‘Can I get you some tea?’ she asked. Her jumpy body language suggested she already knew how the scene was going to play out, despite clinging to some faint hope she was wrong.

  They declined the offer. Neeraj sat on the low chintzy sofa without waiting to be asked. He was still wearing his jacket.

  ‘You reported your daughter missing, Mrs Wyatt,’ Denning said.

  She nodded. ‘Yes. She was supposed to pick Charlie up this morning, but she never showed up. It’s not like her. Her whole life revolves around little Charlie. She’d never let him down.’

  ‘Charlie?’ Denning enquired.

  ‘Her little boy. He was staying with me last night. Leanne said she was meeting a friend, so I said I’d have him. She said she’d come round this morning and pick him up first thing. Well, she hadn’t appeared by lunchtime, so I began to worry. I phoned her mobile a few times, but there was no answer. I left a couple of messages on her voicemail, and phoned her neighbour. She knocked on Leanne’s door, but there was no one in. Then I phoned some of her friends. No one had seen her last night.’

  Denning asked, ‘Is it possible she could have stayed over with someone last night and simply lost track of time?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s really not like her to stay out and forget about Charlie.’

  ‘How old is Charlie?’ Neeraj asked.

  ‘He’ll be five in October.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ asked Denning.

  She jerked her head towards the living room wall. ‘He’s next door, playing with my neighbour’s grandkids. I didn’t want him here when you called round.’

  ‘Does Leanne often leave her son with you while she goes out drinking?’ Neeraj asked.