by Jane Casey
“We need to interrupt them,” I said.
“Absolutely not,” Burt snapped. “They’ve only just started again, and it’s going really well.”
“There’s something they need to know.”
“Give her a chance,” Derwent said. I’d been sure he would take my side once Burt was against me. “What is it?”
“Vinny didn’t die in Afghanistan. He got an honorable discharge in November last year, and came home. He’s in London.”
“Motherfucker,” Derwent whispered. Una Burt looked as if she was thinking the same thing.
In case they hadn’t worked out where this was going, I wrapped it up for them. “And six weeks after Vinny got back to the UK, Kirsty Campbell was killed.”
Chapter Thirty-two
There was no need to argue with anyone after that. Burt herself went and knocked on the interview-room door. Maitland and Godley came down the corridor at a run to hear what I’d found out, crowding into the little room with Burt behind them.
“Are you serious?” Maitland demanded.
“Never more so. He’s alive and pretending not to be.”
“Why did he leave the army?” Godley asked.
“There are two versions to that. I only know the truth because I managed to speak to his commanding officer, who is now based in Essex. The official story was that he put in his papers because he’d had enough. I leaned on the guy a bit and he told me, off the record, that Vinny got in serious trouble in Helmand. He attacked a teenage boy and almost killed him. They hushed it up—said the guy was Taliban and Vinny had been acting in self-defense—but according to his CO, he beat him half to death and left him with life-changing injuries.”
“What does that mean?” Derwent demanded.
“He ripped his balls off.” Every man in the room looked sick, Derwent most of all. “You asked,” I pointed out.
“Any idea of a motive?”
“A row about a local girl.”
“Huh,” Derwent said. “A crime of passion. He was bloody lucky they didn’t do him for it.”
“Vinny was very popular, very well respected. No one wanted to see him in a court martial. There was a ton of evidence against him—he didn’t bother trying to hide what he was doing or why—so he was looking at considerable jail time and a dishonorable discharge. His CO advised him to put in his papers instead and go home.”
“And they let him?” Maitland was incredulous.
“It’s not as if he did this in Warrington or somewhere. Afghanistan is a long way from the UK, and an eye for an eye isn’t such a big deal there,” Derwent said.
“The CO actually said to me, ‘What happens in Helmand stays in Helmand,’” I added.
Godley folded his arms. “Let the army sort out its own mess. If the Red Caps were prepared to let him go, I’m not going to make a case against him for that. But given the timings, I want to find out more about Vinny, and I want to know what Shane knows about him.”
“Start off by asking him where Vinny’s been living. Not with him, not in that flat.” I was absolutely sure of it, having searched it.
“Find out if he’s been giving him money. That could explain the switch to cash,” Colin said.
“If Vinny’s folks think he’s dead, he must be sending them his pension,” Burt suggested. “That’d leave him short.”
“Shane has been giving him money, but not as a handout. Vinny’s been working for him in the bar.” I was getting used to being the one who dropped the bombshells but that got almost as good a reaction as the news that Vinny wasn’t dead after all.
“What the actual f—” Derwent started to say and Godley cut him off.
“How do you know that?”
“I saw him.” I turned to Maitland. “You saw him, too. Remember when we cut through the kitchen at the bar? The guy unloading a dishwasher? Tattoos up both arms? Muscles?”
“Vaguely.”
“He was wearing a blue T-shirt,” I said. Maitland shook his head. I gave up and went on. “I saw his face but I didn’t make the connection until just now because I thought Vinny was dead.”
“So you think he got back, got in touch with Shane and got a job,” Godley said.
“And Shane switched to cash as far as he could to hide whatever money he was sending Vinny’s way. I bet he was being paid more than your average kitchen hand,” I said.
“We need to get him picked up,” Burt said.
I shook my head. “Once I found out he was alive, I did some checking. I had time on my hands while I was waiting to hear from the CO. No one at the bar knows where he lives and no one has seen him since we found out Shane was missing. He’s gone.”
“Let’s get in there and hit Shane with what we know.” Godley was fidgeting, unusual for him. He wanted this case solved, and not just because of the media interest or the pressure from his bosses. He wanted the person who killed those four women to be stopped.
“If you can’t find out anything else, try to get him to tell you if anyone else knows Vinny’s alive,” I suggested. “He’s going to need help to get out of sight. It’s a place for us to start looking.”
* * *
You could have heard a pin drop in the little room where we were waiting. Everyone was staring at the screen, where Maitland and Godley were pulling out their chairs and sitting down.
“All right, Shane? How’s the head?” Maitland asked.
“Yeah. Fine.”
“All right for water? Do you want a tea or coffee?”
“No thanks.” Shane was looking suspicious but he didn’t have the experience to know what Maitland was doing: closing off the options for him so he had no legitimate excuse to stop the interview.
“Sorry for the interruption,” Godley said easily. “This is an active inquiry and we’re getting more information all the time that helps us to work out what’s been going on.”
“Yeah, but the last bit was a shock, wasn’t it?” Maitland said to him, grinning. “Not every day you find out someone’s made a full recovery from being dead.”
Shane’s eyes went from Maitland to Godley and back again, trying to read their expressions. Godley leaned forward.
“Vinny Naylor. Rumors of his death have been greatly exaggerated.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on. Course you do. Big lad, works in your kitchen in the bar. Not chatty but nice to the others.”
“That’s Jimmy. He’s got learning disabilities. No education. Nice guy but all I can give him to do is menial stuff.”
Godley tapped the table. “Jimmy’s disappeared. Around the same time your bar filled up with policemen. Where do you think he went?”
“I don’t know.”
“By your own account you headed off to punish Josh Derwent. Did Vinny try to stop you? Was Vinny looking for you while you were holed up in your hotel? Or did Vinny have problems of his own?” Godley was hitting him hard, not even giving him time to answer. Shane’s expression was pained.
“We know about what happened in Afghanistan. We know he came home and didn’t want anyone to know he was back. We know he came home just before Kirsty Campbell was killed. Are you saying that timing is a coincidence?”
“Yes. It has to be.”
Godley pounced. “So you’re admitting that Jimmy is really your friend Vinny.”
He didn’t want to say yes. In the end, he gave a tiny, infinitesimal nod, which Godley described for the benefit of the transcript.
Beside me, Derwent sighed. “Poor old Shane. Never the sharpest knife in the drawer. Almost makes me feel as if we’re taking advantage of him.”
With no such pangs of conscience, Godley went on: “And you’ve been giving him cash from the business to cover his costs and pay his family.”
“I’ve been paying him for working.”
“Why in cash?”
“He doesn’t have a bank account,” Shane admitted. “Cash is easier.”
“Where does he l
ive?”
“I don’t know.”
Maitland snorted. “Come off it.”
“I don’t. Some sort of hostel in the East End. I asked him about it a couple of times and he told me I was better off not knowing, that it wasn’t the sort of place you’d have your mates round for curry anyway.”
Vinny, knowing that Shane was unreliable, taking steps to protect himself in the event that someone came looking for him. It rang alarm bells for me in a big way. Burt and Derwent obviously felt the same way because they were busy exchanging meaningful glances when I looked. Maybe what simmered between them wasn’t animosity, but sexual tension. I made a note to suggest it the next time I was alone with Derwent and felt the need to be shouted at.
“Where did he go, Shane?” Maitland asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve been a bit tied up.”
“Have you been in touch with him?”
“No.”
“Got a mobile number for him?”
“No.”
Godley was going through the file in front of him, looking for something. “Here’s a printout showing all the contacts on your phone. Are you sure Vinny isn’t on here?”
“Yeah.”
“Who’s Jimmy Vincent?”
“A bloke.”
“Not ‘Jimmy’ whose real name is Vincent?”
Shane looked mortified. “No comment.”
“It’s too late for that. You can’t give a no comment interview now.” Godley’s voice deepened, sounding more authoritative. “He’s gone underground, Shane, and we need to find him. For his sake and for the safety of others. Why do you think he disappeared?”
“Dunno. Probably because he doesn’t like coppers.” Shane shrugged. “I’m beginning to see his point.”
“We can’t let him kill again.”
“He’s not a killer.”
“Beating up that boy in Afghanistan—what if it reminded him of Angela? It made him want to hurt someone. It set off the chain of events that have left four young women dead. Four. Do you really want to add to the tally?”
“It’s not him.” Shane looked close to desperate. “I don’t know how to explain it to you so you’ll understand me. He’s not a murderer. He’s just not.”
“Sometimes it’s the people you think you know best who have the darkest secrets,” Godley said. “Nothing to be ashamed of. Think of all the wives who defended their husbands until they were proved wrong.”
Maitland stirred. “You’re not married, Shane, are you? How would you describe your relationship with Vinny? Friends? Or more than friends?”
“What are you trying to say?” Shane demanded, his face dark.
“He’s not going to like that,” Derwent predicted.
“Someone needs to look into possible addresses for Vinny,” Una Burt said abruptly. “Maeve, you’ve been doing well today. Do you want to make some calls?”
No, thanks. I’d like to stay and watch us get within touching distance of London’s most wanted killer. She wasn’t looking for a proper answer. I got up slowly, reluctantly, and headed for the door.
“And when you come back, bring coffee,” Derwent commanded, not even looking away from the screen.
“I might be a while,” I said.
“That’s okay. I can wait.”
“You’ll have to,” I said through gritted teeth as I shut the door. I might miss out on the interview, but I was absolutely not going to hurry back.
* * *
Allocated the same spare desk in the detectives’ room I spent the next two hours doing Internet searches, checking phone books and ringing people. I called hostels, working men’s clubs, cheap rented accommodation, charities, churches. I rang the places people went when they had nowhere else to go. I rang anyone who offered cheap, medium- to long-term accommodation in the East End and beyond, prioritizing places that could be described as hostels. I described Vincent Naylor, AKA Jimmy, until the words ceased to have any meaning for me, until my voice was hoarse and my hand ached from writing notes. I listed the possibles, passing them on to Colin Vale, who contacted the local police stations and asked for neighborhood officers to make calls in person as a matter of priority to interview our candidates.
It was a pleasant, slightly vague voice on the other end of the phone that put me out of my misery, a voice belonging to Father Gordon from St. Philip’s Catholic Church in Bethnal Green. He was responsible for running their hostel. (“Which is a grand name for a house left to us by a parishioner. We house the homeless and others who are down on their luck. They each get a room and share the bathroom and kitchen.”)
I explained who I was and where I was calling from, then described Vinny without saying why I was looking for him.
“Oh, yes. Jimmy has been with us for a while. He’s very helpful—I don’t know how we’d keep the place running without him. He’s already fixed a hole in the roof and a bit of loose guttering and mended the gate where someone reversed into it. Worth his weight in gold.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“He’s not here now, I’m afraid.”
“When was the last time you saw him, Father?”
“This morning.” He sounded puzzled. “Is everything all right?”
“We just want to talk to him about the bar where he works.”
“Oh, I see. But it’s closed at the moment.”
“Yes, I know,” I said patiently.
“I’ll tell him you were looking for him.”
I got in quickly. “There’s no need. Really. It’s not urgent and I was just really making sure we knew where to find him.”
“But if you leave me your name and number, I’m sure he’ll get back to you.”
“I wouldn’t put you to the trouble,” I said, which was a phrase my mother used when she absolutely didn’t want to let someone do something. It was surprisingly effective and worked as well as ever on the priest.
Colin had been hanging over my shoulder and as soon as he got the nod he hurried off to let Godley know we had an address. The superintendent would send a team to arrest him, and in the meantime there was a force-wide alert to keep looking for him, just in case he’d heard of Shane’s arrest, just in case he was running now for real. I leaned back in my borrowed chair, fuzzy with tiredness. Now that the chase was almost over I felt as if I’d slipped into neutral. I had nothing left to give. I picked up the phone and rang Rob, just to listen to his voicemail message, just to feel that he wasn’t all that far away on the other side of the Atlantic. When the bleep came, I told him I was fine and work was exciting and I’d hardly been in the flat since he left so the danger had been minimal. I made myself sound cheerful and carefree and as if I wasn’t missing him at all.
There was no chance he’d be taken in by it, but it made me feel better, and that was more or less the point.
* * *
Ninety minutes later I was still at the police station, still exhausted and very bored. From being at the center of the investigation, the Shane Poole line of inquiry had turned into a bit of a sideshow. Godley had left, accompanied by Colin Vale. Harry Maitland and Una Burt were still asking Shane endless questions about his sister, Vinny and the murdered women. I was there to mind Derwent and make sure he behaved himself, on Godley’s instructions. How I was supposed to do that, I didn’t know. I’d noted the location of the nearest fire extinguisher and I was prepared to use it on him if need be.
The interview with Shane was staggering to a close. It was late and everyone in the room was exhausted, Maitland most of all. He obviously hated having to work with Una Burt, who kept cutting across him to ask random questions. Shane was having trouble working out what she wanted and how he should answer. I presumed that was her intention, but I couldn’t be sure, and certainly Derwent was annoyed enough to heckle whenever she spoke.
The door to our room opened and a uniformed PC leaned in. “Do either of you know where DC Kerrigan is?”
“That’s me,” I said, leaping up.
&nbs
p; “There’s someone in reception for you.”
I barely let him finish; I was halfway down the hall already. To get out of the stuffy room had been my dearest wish. Literally anything would do if it gave me a reason to leave.
I went through the heavy door into reception wondering who knew I was even there. One of my colleagues, probably. I had an outside bet on Peake.
He was standing with his back to me, reading a road safety notice pinned to a board. He was enormous in his puffa jacket, and the baseball cap that was pulled down over his eyes made him anonymous. I tacked sideways as I approached, trying to work out how I knew him, and I was feet away when he turned. I stopped dead.
“I heard you were looking for me,” he said.
Derwent came out through the reinforced door at that moment, heading for the exit, still fighting his crutches every step of the way. He glanced at me, then beyond me, and his expression changed in a way that was almost comic, going from bored to incredulous as his eyes opened wide.
“I don’t believe it.”
Vinny Naylor grinned. “Hello, Josh. Long time no see.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Here’s what should have happened next: I should have arrested, cautioned, searched and processed Vinny Naylor, then handed him over to the custody sergeant who should have tucked him up in a cell to await the arrival of a legal representative and some new interviewers since Maitland and Burt would be worn out. Godley should have returned to claim his scalp and do a quick press conference on the steps of the police station, while inside Vinny confessed to all four murders and anything else we could think to throw at him. And then we should all have patted ourselves on the back for a job well done.
What actually happened was that Derwent limped past me at incredible speed, grabbed Vinny by the arm and hissed, “What do you think you’re doing? Do you want to go to prison?”
“No, of course not,” Vinny snapped. “But I don’t want to leave Shane here answering questions that you really need to ask me.”
“Shane’s all right.”
“No, he’s not. He’ll be getting himself in trouble if I know him. And he doesn’t deserve to be.” Vinny was the same height as Derwent and the two of them were nose to nose.