The temperature on her veranda was dropping. Elaine poured another two fingers of whisky and again drank it in one gulp. She pulled her feet under her and wrapped herself back into the duvet.
Bull and Simon were assigned to Novak’s team within an hour after the victim had been discovered. Did that mean something had touched the Srecko case? Then Novak had warned them away from her. Was that his backhanded way of telling them there was a connection?
The previously unidentified victim was an ex-paramilitary thug. The Sreckos fit the profile of ex-soldiers turned to crime. Coincidence? Elaine despised coincidence. There must be some connection to the Sreckos and their real estate dealings. When she’d pressed Mehta about that, he hadn’t denied it outright, but he’d prevaricated. What else did he know?
She couldn’t put her finger on it yet, but the picture was bigger than the Sreckos, more convoluted than she had first imagined.
Her own police force—that black silhouette—was stalking her. As difficult as that was for Elaine to comprehend, Mehta and Cranwell had confirmed it. She didn’t know why they would need to do that. What were they afraid of? She searched her memory for anything she knew about the Sreckos that could compromise the police, and she came up empty.
Was someone in the Met protecting the Sreckos because they were paid informants? The Met’s regulations stipulated multiple layers of control over snouts because many jurors viewed paying for evidence as too corrupting, and sometimes discounted testimony from informants. This made the need for corroboration so strong that it made no sense to rely on informants for much beyond intelligence gathering. Elaine agreed with this view, although once or twice she had slipped fifty quid to the right person when that was her only option for getting information.
She considered Anton. He would never be an informant, and would never let someone control him. He’d certainly want to control a cop. Was that what this was about? But who was on which side?
She gripped the whisky glass tighter. Mehta’s disdain, Cranwell’s warnings, Novak’s apparent subversion. Was the whole bloody world against her? If her off-the-books detective work was interfering with an investigation, why didn’t someone just say so? She’d gladly tell them what little she knew, get in line, and join the hunt. She had been thinking, researching, tailing for two months—all to no avail. The possible connection between the Lights Out London real estate fiddles Mehta had talked about and the Sreckos’ dodgy real estate company had given her a glimmer of hope. Now all this confusion.
Christ, it’s getting colder. She took a last deep breath of the freezing air, picked up the bottle and glass, and went inside. In the bedroom, she turned her attention to the pinboard. Useless. Fucking useless. What the hell have I been doing? She pulled the note cards off, ripped them in half with sharp jerks, and dropped them in a waste bin. When all the cards were gone, Anton still stared down at her. Why did she keep that monster in her room? She yanked his photo from the board but stopped short of tearing it apart. Instead, she placed it in the envelope containing other photos she had taken.
She was being followed, but who’d ordered it? She had no fucking clue what Novak was up to, but was he, or Cranwell, or whoever, trying to tell her something? Was someone in Anton’s pocket? And was it someone on her old team?
DS Paula Ford had run the incident room and had been privy to all the plans and actions. Elaine had worked with her for years and had no doubts of her loyalty. Costello? Bull? Liz Barker, God forbid? They could be risking their careers by coming to her now. She didn’t, or couldn’t, believe the traitor to be any of her former team.
If the traitor wasn’t one of her detectives, then it could only be someone higher up. Someone who knew the line of enquiry, who had knowledge of the evidence, and was privy to her plans.
She focused on the black silhouette. Someone higher up. Cranwell oversaw murder investigation teams. Mehta was a forensic accountant in Financial Crimes. He hadn’t been involved in the Srecko case, but who had briefed him, wired him, assigned a watcher? They had to be high enough up to be able to cross divisional boundaries. She wrote names on three note cards, pinned them to the board, and stood back to take them in.
DCS Alec Cranwell had been her immediate superior when she’d been in Murder Investigation. Commander Jonathan Hughes had been, and still was, Cranwell’s immediate superior. John O’Rourke had been the Crown Prosecutor assigned to their unit, and he most likely still was.
After some thought, she realized there was another, more sinister and malicious possibility. DC Jenkins had been involved in her last case, but she had removed him and brought him up on charges of insubordination, sexual harassment, and incompetence, which had ended his career in the Met. He had resigned from the service rather than go before a Professional Standards tribunal. After he resigned, she had seen him lurking in the crowd at an office fire in which evidence had been destroyed. Why had he been there if he had left the service?
She pulled out another note card and wrote a name: Ex-DC Arvel Jenkins. Could he lead her to the traitor?
Four names. Why hadn’t she thought to narrow it down sooner instead of trying to boil the ocean? Had her obsession overcome everything she knew about the detection process?
Who should I start with? Simon said he’d seen Novak meeting Hughes. Now there’s a thought. He had said that he thought Novak and Hughes knew each other before, but it was still a connection. She added another card with Novak’s name and stretched a piece of yarn from there to Hughes.
Her mobile warbled. Before Elaine could say her name, a woman’s voice asked, “DCI Hope?”
“Yes. Joanna?” This was completely unexpected.
“Can we meet, talk? Tomorrow?”
“Of course. Pick a place and time.”
“There’s a pub, the Clarendon Arms on Camberwell New Road. Around three?”
“Certainly. I’ll be there at three. Can I ask—”
Joanna had rung off. There was no point ringing her back. Best to be patient. Elaine saved Joanna’s number in her contacts list and turned her attention back to the pinboard.
Five names. Where to start? She knew where to find Cranwell, Hughes, O’Rourke, and Novak. Jenkins could be in Leeds or Dublin or Montevideo, for all she knew.
Cranwell. Why had he warned her? It could be out of friendship, but—no, something else was at play. She had looked up the phone number he had given her on a reverse lookup site, but with no result. That meant it was probably a prepaid “burner” phone, useful because they couldn’t be traced to an owner, cheap enough to be thrown away if necessary. She could find out more about the number and its call history if she needed to. She wrote “What about the burner?” on a note card and pinned it below Cranwell’s.
Hughes and Cranwell had risen through the ranks together. Hughes’s higher rank made him more difficult to reach on her own initiative.
Experience told her that O’Rourke had plenty of character flaws she, or others, could exploit. She’d look over his recent cases. Had he decided not to prosecute supposedly solid charges? Had he proposed light sentences against the advice of police? What was his personal life like? She’d start in the morning, working from home.
Would she have enough time to follow this up and work at the Police College as well? She had come back early from her compassionate leave. Perhaps she needed more time off. If she could get it, she’d be free of her obligations to the Met for a while.
She had the beginnings of a new plan. She’d begin researching O’Rourke on Saturday morning, then meet with Joanna Christie in the afternoon. The meeting at New Scotland Yard on Monday.
A feeling of relief coursed through her. It was after ten; perhaps she could sleep. Elaine slid under the duvet and gazed at the ceiling, her arm crooked over her forehead. Scratch hopped onto the bed and draped himself over her lower legs. She had plenty to do.
TWENTY-ONE
Saturday morning, Kensington
Novak marched to the front of the squad room and pointed at a photo Costello
was tacking to the situation board. “Europol identified our victim from fingerprints. Dragan Bosko, age forty-four. Convictions in the Czech Republic and Hungary for auto theft, credit card theft, and various assaults. Wanted in Denmark and Sweden for drug trafficking and suspected people trafficking. No record in the UK.”
He nodded at Costello, who took up the thread. “We think Bosko is the father of Zoltan Bosko, who was seventeen when he worked in the UK as a dogsbody for IRG Ltd., a company run by Anton Srecko. We believe the younger Bosko assisted the suspect in the Sheila Watson murder investigation, nine, ten months ago. He disappeared about the same time the case was cleared.”
An older DC spoke up. “When DCI Hope was assaulted, Sarge? Nilo Srecko?”
“Right. Eventually we got a match for Nilo’s DNA off the victim’s bra, which we found in a nearby building.”
Bull raised his hand. “So this Dragan bloke comes here to find his son, who he hasn’t heard from. He discovers he’s dead and goes looking for revenge. He gets too close to whoever did it, and they top him. The Sreckos again?”
Novak answered. “Don’t think so. Boxe-Berkshire Ltd. has been in business for over a century. Financial Crimes told me there’s no relationship between the Sreckos and the murder flat. Not even as clients.”
“But guv, there’s a connec—”
“Leave it to Financial Crimes, Bull, and focus on your own breakfast. What can you tell us about the cars? You’ve had that on your plate all week. Too tough to chew?”
Laughs erupted, then faded as Bull stood, bristling. He gathered his notes and walked to the front.
“The Peugeot is owned by Jean-Paul Duclerq, a retired French politician, seventy years old, lives on an estate outside Reims. Began as a conservative and became more right wing, finally forced out. Now he’s an advisor to the National Front. I called a friend in the Gendarmerie. Duclerq has been housebound for the last two years, paraplegic from some bogus medical treatment. He couldn’t have been the driver. So who was driving, and why were they on that street?”
Novak spoke. “Police Nationale might be more helpful. Our liaison info is online. Don’t spend much time on it.”
“I was thinking there could be a connection with that French widow who found the shoe. Her house is two doors down from the murder scene.”
Novak nodded at Costello. “DS Costello can follow that up directly with the lady on Monday. What about the Jag?”
“We’re checking every Jag sedan that CCTV picked up on Fulham Road and Old Brompton Road that night and all that are registered in a five-mile radius. Nothing yet.”
“Forensics?”
“No DNA from the vomit, due to alcohol and acid,” Bull replied. “No epithelial cells in the urine, so no DNA there either. The shoe the French lady found had been washed, but blood was present in the crevices. We should have results by tomorrow.”
“Rain?” Novak asked.
“They found traces of detergent.”
Novak nodded. “Right. Get back to it.” He walked to his office and closed the door.
Bull had just sat down at his desk when his phone signalled he had received a text message from Costello.
Bull called up the east-facing CCTV camera that covered the north-west corner of the intersection at Queen’s Gate and Old Brompton Road. He hadn’t watched it before—one of the uniforms had reviewed the video, noting number plates and identifying vehicle owners. He forwarded the video until the time showed 21:24, then advanced the frames slowly. At 21:25:17, a dark-coloured Jaguar saloon entered the intersection from Queen’s Gate on the north side, driving south. He stopped the video and advanced it one frame at a time. The driver’s profile looked familiar. Bull rewound and watched, then zoomed the frame and played it yet again. This time he could just discern the outline of a head on the passenger side, but there were too many shadows to tell much else.
He switched to the west-facing camera, which was positioned on the south-east corner of the intersection. When he zoomed in on the Jag this time, he could see the light-coloured profile of a person in the driver’s seat.
So a dark-coloured Jag saloon with a driver and a passenger had crossed Old Brompton Road, heading in the direction of the murder scene. He opened the database file containing the number-plate identifications and scrolled to the location and time. When he saw the name, he nodded. He’d been right about the driver looking familiar.
John Gilbey O’Rourke. The home address indicated a flat in Notting Hill. John O’Rourke, also known as Jacko, lawyer with the Crown Prosecution Service. Brilliant attorney, womanizer, drinker, generally disliked by the coppers who worked with him. Months ago, when they had all been stationed in the Empress State Building, Bull had watched Jacko hit on DCI Hope mercilessly and had watched her dismantle him in return. The guv had far too much self-respect to be attracted to someone like Jacko.
Jacko—Jack? Driving towards the crime scene, at about the right time, with what could be a blonde passenger. Did he leave the area with the same passenger? Bull looked at the database once again, this time using the number plate as the search criteria. The next entry for Jacko’s Jag indicated that at 21:44 it had turned from Cranley Gardens onto Evelyn Gardens. Bull called up that camera, which was mounted above street level, high atop St. Yeghiche’s Church. Bull watched the Jag approach. The number plate was fully visible. As the car got closer to the corner, the camera angle became too steep to see anything of the windscreen. By the time Jacko turned west on Evelyn Gardens, the viewing angle was almost straight down.
Bull reversed the video and watched the car approach. When he zoomed in, reflections of street lights blocked his view through the windscreen. He couldn’t tell if there was a passenger. He sat back in his chair. Barefoot Woman wouldn’t have been in the car because at that time she was passing in front of the Onslow Arms pub.
There were no other sightings recorded in the database, most likely because the officers had been instructed to look at cameras within a three- or four-block radius of the crime scene, and Evelyn Gardens was right at the edge of the area of interest.
Where was Jacko going? Home? The route to Notting Hill was fairly direct if he’d just driven north. But Jacko headed south and west. Was he drunk? Confused? Was he trying to avoid CCTV cameras?
He pulled out his phone and texted Costello.
He pressed “Send” and waited. Seconds later came the reply.
Bull sent another text.
<21 mins not acctd for>
Costello rose and disappeared into Novak’s office. Bull returned to the list of CCTV files from forensics. A new file had popped up at the bottom of the list, with the description “Peugeot occupants? Partially recovered from damaged pvt CCTV.” Bull remembered a video from a security camera mounted on one of the houses near the murder scene. The camera was malfunctioning, and the video was of extremely poor quality. Forensics must have been able to recover something. He opened the file.
Grainy images appeared, mixed with white static snow and large square pixelation. The beginning time stamp in the lower right corner showed 21:01:34. A car, probably the Peugeot, moved into the frame and parked at the kerb. Snow and pixelation obscured the image for a moment. When it cleared, Bull could discern two figures on the steps of the house two doors down from the murder scene—La Veuve’s house. A caption, “Gap of 32:52,” appeared, followed by a section that began at 21:34:26. Bull watched as the time counter ticked by. Snow and pixelation obscured the image for seconds at a time. Bull peered closely at the screen. He could just make out the Peugeot, but the image was too poor to determine if the Jag was parked close by.
Then, just after 22:35, the image cleared somewhat. Bull saw a single figure emerge from La Veuve’s house and get into the Peugeot. The car pulled into the street and drove away, but the snow and pixilation obscured the image
thereafter.
Two went in, one came out. Could the killer have been the blurry figure he saw leave? He checked the house-to-house file that Costello’s team had compiled. The address between the murder scene and La Veuve’s was vacant. He called up Google Earth on his computer and inspected the back gardens of the terraced homes. It was difficult to tell, but it appeared to him that most of the gardens had walls separating them. They needed to check.
Costello wasn’t at his desk, so Bull texted him.
There was no immediate answer. A half hour later, Bull was catching up on his reports when Costello dropped a folder on his desk and walked away. Bull opened it. The only item inside was an advertisement for Marks & Spencer that appeared to have been torn from a newspaper. When he studied the advertisement more closely, he saw the words “Scarsdale 1 pm” had been written in the margin in light pencil.
The Scarsdale Tavern was around the corner from the nick. If Costello was scared enough to resort to spy craft, the Scarsdale was a poor choice for a meeting ground. Officers from the nick often went there for lunch. He thought a minute, then erased the writing and pencilled “Onslow 1” over it. Why not meet on the ground around the crime scene? He stuffed some blank sheets of paper into the folder, rose, and dropped the folder in Costello’s inbox on his way to the loo.
He was washing his hands when Costello entered and walked to a urinal. Bull kept washing until Costello joined him at the next basin.
Costello kept his voice at a whisper. “Onslow. I’ll bring the key.”
“Right.” Bull walked out, wondering what the hell was going on.
TWENTY-TWO
Saturday afternoon, Kensington
“Novak wanted to what?” Bull pulled a face. “It looks like Jacko’s got a passenger with him. The timing is right. It’s the first ident we’ve got except for the victim. We still need to do more digging, and Novak wants us to just ring Jacko up and ask what he was doing there? Not exactly procedure.”
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