by Hania Allen
He shook his head. ‘The blood on the iron is his, ma’am, and the only prints are Rose Manning’s.’ He hesitated. ‘Sir Bernard is autopsying Tubby tomorrow. He wondered if you and DI English would be there.’
She turned away, the tears welling. This was one autopsy she wouldn’t be attending.
‘And he apologised that the forensics on Max Quincey aren’t through yet.’
She blinked back the tears. ‘What forensics?’
‘Something about chemical tests on the hair?’
‘Pity he can’t wave a magic wand and tell us whose it is.’
He was fidgeting. ‘There’s another thing, ma’am. We need Downley’s prints so we can check them against those on the taps.’ He looked at a point beyond her shoulder. ‘We’d take something from his flat but we’re not sure whose prints we’ll find.’
They were all tiptoeing around her. By now, the whole nick knew, not only about Kenny’s drug-dealing, but about Georgie. ‘I’ll bring something I know only he’s touched,’ she said. ‘And tomorrow, let’s see if we can find this Jonathan Moudry. He’s the only lead we have left. For now, though, we’ll call it a day.’
Steve hung back, busying himself tidying a desk that didn’t need tidying.
‘Not got a home to go to?’ she said quietly.
He was looking everywhere but at her face. ‘I’m thinking you shouldn’t stay in your flat alone till we’ve caught Kenny. He may be dangerous.’
‘He’s hardly going to attack me.’
‘You don’t know that. It turned ugly back there.’
‘Yes, I hit him, I seem to remember.’
‘I meant—’
‘I know what you meant, Steve.’ She waited till he’d stopped what he was doing and looked at her. ‘If anyone tries to force the front door, I’ll climb out of the bedroom window.’ She smiled brightly. ‘The advantages of a ground-floor flat.’
He said nothing.
‘You may think I don’t know Kenny, but he wouldn’t hurt me. Of that, I’m sure.’
‘Let me stay with you, Von.’
‘You can’t.’
‘Why not?’ he said, a trace of anger in his voice.
It was a long time before she spoke. ‘Because we both know what might happen.’ She picked up her coat and walked past him to the door.
Von lay on the sofa, sipping wine, listening to ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond’. Whenever she felt low, Pink Floyd was guaranteed to raise her spirits. God, she was tired. It was the worst kind of tiredness. Not the tiredness of physical exercise, or even of a satisfying day’s work; it was like the lethargy after a long debilitating illness. They were still no nearer to finding Max’s killer, or the killer of the rent boys. It was as though she’d stepped into quicksand: the more she struggled to make sense of things, the faster she sank to nowhere.
They were fooling themselves if they thought they’d ever find the Cutter. Or Kenny. Especially Kenny. He knew how to hide. He had a string of contacts from here to eternity. And many lived abroad. She’d got his details out to the ports and airports promptly, but that meant nothing. There were a dozen ways he could slip overseas without being detected. Would he be taking Georgie with him? Without a doubt. She was having his baby, wasn’t she? His words still had the power to slice through her. I tried hard not to love her. Not hard enough, though, did you, Kenny?
She poured the last of the wine, and raised her glass. Here’s to you, Kenny and Georgie, wherever you are. She wondered what Georgie would think if she knew that the designer clothes she stood up in had been bought with the proceeds of the heroin trade. Would Kenny have told her how he made all that money? Course not. I didn’t mean it to happen. I only wanted to help her. The bastard. Tears stabbed at her eyes. If it took forever, she’d find him.
She rubbed her face hard. She was in danger of losing sight of the case. That was what mattered now; Kenny could wait. She considered the few options left to her. She could call the drugs squad and have them haul in everyone at the Duke. Tempting, but where would that get them? It would alert the Cutter and he’d melt into the darkness. Perhaps not, though. The Cutter had unfinished business. He’d marked her cards for certain; under torture, Tubby would have given up her name. If the Cutter had killed a copper’s snout, he wouldn’t stop at killing a copper. A part of her wanted him to bring it on, so she could look into his eyes.
There was something she’d forgotten, something she’d meant to do, but the bottle of Shiraz had waylaid her. Kenny’s dabs. She dragged herself to the kitchen. The empty beer bottles were lined up beside the fridge, waiting to be taken to the bottle bank. She snapped on her latex gloves and lifted the one Kenny had used last.
She fished inside her handbag for the plastic bags which were, of course, at the bottom. It was a law of nature that everything she ever needed from that bag worked its way to the bottom. In a fit of impatience, she shook the contents onto the floor. The plastic bags fell out last. She wrapped the bottle carefully, pressing the plastic seal, and then placed it inside a carrier bag. She knelt to gather the rest of the items.
Something had fallen under the chair. She turned it over slowly and stared at it for a full minute. The slow poison of recognition seeped into her consciousness, followed immediately by the rush of comprehension.
She slumped onto the chair, and swallowed rapidly, trying not to be sick.
It was richer, like a top-grade tobacco. Hoyo de Monterrey. He was smoking it when he delivered the package to Kenny. And he’d been there at the restaurant, although Danni hadn’t been able to tell which of them had the cigarillos. They were both smoking.
She’d discussed the case with him over a drink. She’d made no mention of the Duke, but he’d brought the subject up himself. Tom gave no hint to me of drug dealing at the Duke.
Worst of all, something for which she would never forgive herself, she’d led him to Tubby. I’ve sent my snout in. Tubby, whom he knew. I thought he’d gone to ground in Torremolinos. I’ve been on the lookout for him.
Her stomach felt tied in knots. She and her team had been careful to keep quiet about the heroin, so how had the drugs squad discovered she was investigating the Duke? He’d tipped them off. It was the only explanation. And with his contacts he could sidetrack or even close down her investigation, as he’d done when Harrower was the senior investigating.
She examined her reflection in the kitchen window as though seeing it for the first time. He was tall, held himself erect. Well-spoken. Home counties accent.
And he knew Max Quincey. Knew him well enough to visit him in his room, and sit smoking Hoyo de Monterrey. Knew him so well that he just had to wait for Max to lower his guard before he struck him on the head, stripped him naked, and strangled him.
Her head cleared. She knew what she had to do. This, after all, was why she’d become a copper. She stared at the plastic bag in her hand. Inside was the means by which she would bring Simon Hensbury down: his fingerprints were on the toothbrush.
Chapter 30
Von held up the bottle. ‘A recent beer bottle, handled only by Kenny Downley. And possibly the factory that manufactured it. These come shrink-wrapped in packets of six.’
‘Will your prints be on it, ma’am?’ said Larry.
‘Shouldn’t be, but you’ve got my dabs, in case. You’ll get a good set. When Kenny drinks, he holds a bottle not by the neck but further down, with all five fingers.’ She was conscious Steve was watching her. ‘So was there anything in Kenny’s flat that might tell us where he is, Larry?’
He shook his head. ‘No indication he was planning to go anywhere. Passport was in a drawer. It was the things he’d keep on his person – credit cards, mobile phone – which were missing.’
‘No plane tickets, travel brochures?’
‘And no letters of any sort.’
Who wrote letters these days? Kenny was like her, he used his mobile phone for everything. His contacts’ details, and possibly the address of the rented office, would be on th
e phone card. He’d have destroyed it by now and bought a new one. He was way ahead of them.
‘You pally with the fingerprint expert?’ she said, smiling wearily at Larry. ‘Can you get those prints done as a priority?’
‘We knock a football around together occasionally.’ He grinned. ‘Anyway, Gerry owes me a favour, he stole my girlfriend.’
The young detective who was managing the scene of Tubby’s murder was hovering at her elbow. ‘We’ve been back to the street and done the usual but I’m not confident we’ll uncover anything, ma’am.’
She drew herself up. ‘Blood spatter?’
‘No, and no pooling under the body. He was killed elsewhere.’
It was the worst-case scenario. The useful evidence would be at the site of Tubby’s murder. ‘Footprints? Tyre tracks?’ she said, going through the list automatically.
‘The area round the body looked too clean. I suspect the place has been swept.’
She gave him a knowing look. ‘We’re dealing with an expert.’
‘The spectacles are missing. We searched everywhere, even in the bin bags. They might still be at the murder site.’ He handed her an envelope. ‘The photographs, ma’am,’ he added gently.
They’d been taken at the crime scene later that same evening. In the strong light, the bruises on Tubby’s face were washed to a sickly grey, the swollen eyelids flattened, the fiery hair bleached to a pale ginger. She felt the knot in her heart tighten. She’d wanted him to come to the station. For the first time, the thought struck her that he may not have been safe, even there. She felt a sudden rush of fear. Was she safe? Were any of them safe?
Steve was watching her. ‘Whoever did this didn’t make it difficult for us to find him, boss. They could have sunk the body out at sea. Would have been months or years before it turned up.’
‘You think it was meant as a warning?’
His eyes were steady. ‘Don’t you?’
She said nothing. She pinned a photograph to the wall. ‘Gather round, folks, and have a good look,’ she said, raising her voice. ‘This was taken at the mortuary under a different illumination. I’ve seen this type of bruising before. Tubby was beaten by someone wearing boxing gloves. But look here.’ She ran a finger over the cheekbone. ‘There are marks on the skin that haven’t been made by a glove. They look like cuts.’
‘The marks are only on the victim’s right cheek,’ Steve said. ‘His assailant would have been standing in front of him, so it suggests he was left-handed.’
‘Good point. Okay, I’ll be at my desk. Can someone call me as soon as we know what the score is with Kenny’s dabs?’
Steve followed her into the office and closed the door.
‘Any problems last night, boss?’
She smiled. ‘I didn’t have to clamber out of the window in my pink and frillies.’
‘But something’s on your mind,’ he said, after a pause.
Yes, there was something on her mind, but she was putting off telling him, waiting to see whether Kenny’s prints matched those on Max’s taps. Steve was expecting an answer. She didn’t like lying but she had to say something. ‘I’m worried about the backlash when the drugs squad discover we knew about the ring and didn’t call them in.’
‘The Chief Super will protect you.’
‘Will he?’
He hesitated. ‘Getting into people’s bad books has never bothered you before.’
‘This time I’ll be in for more than just a ticking off. I’ll be back to pulling people in for speeding and breaking up brawls on a Friday night.’ She played with her pen. ‘You know, Steve, the last time I saw the Chief Super, he threatened me. It’s the first time I’ve seen him behave like that. He’s always in complete control of himself.’
‘The stress of his brother’s death must be getting to him.’ He ran a hand over his neck. ‘It’s not too late to tell him about the drug ring. You could contact him at his mother’s house.’ When she didn’t reply, he added, ‘Policing is one game where it’s better to ask permission beforehand than forgiveness afterwards. Don’t you think you should cover your back?’
She looked into his eyes. ‘If I do, then I’ll never find who killed the Irish boys.’
‘You’re like a dog with a bone when it comes to these rent boys. Anyone else would have given up by now.’
‘Why should their lives be any less valuable than Max’s? Anyway, the cases are linked,’ she said in a tone intended to close the subject.
He leant across and took her hands, running his thumbs over them lightly. ‘You don’t think maybe your heart’s ruling your head, boss? It’s Max Quincey’s murder we’re here to solve.’
Before she could reply, the door opened. She pulled her hands away, but not before Larry had seen.
‘Ma’am, Gerry’s asking us to come into the IT room.’
‘Kenny’s prints?’
‘He won’t say.’
In the IT room, they crowded around the large workstation.
Gerry McNally, Clerkenwell’s fingerprint expert, was peering at the monitor. ‘These are Downley’s prints, taken from the beer bottle.’ He moved the mouse deftly. ‘And here are the ones recovered from the victim’s bathroom taps.’
They didn’t need Gerry to point it out. The two sets couldn’t have been more different.
‘We’ve drawn a blank, Chief Inspector.’
They were waiting for her to speak.
‘Gerry, could you give us a minute, please?’ Her heart was thumping wildly. ‘And can you clear the room, Steve? I want just the team.’
Gerry was used to being dismissed, and left without a word. Steve, who’d been studying the screen, turned and stared at her. She returned the stare without flinching. He walked to the corner and said something to the two men at the desk. With a shrug, they rose and left the room.
There was a tremor in her hands as she reached into her handbag and retrieved the plastic bag with the toothbrush. ‘There are prints on this that may match those on the taps. How quickly can we get them lifted and onto the screen?’
‘Are these Downley’s?’ said Larry. ‘If so, we don’t need them. The ones on the bottle are…’ His voice tailed off as he saw her expression.
Steve’s eyes were glued to the toothbrush. She felt her stomach churn. He can see the hotel’s name on the handle.
His voice was cold. ‘Whose prints are they, boss?’
‘A man’s.’ She hesitated. ‘A copper’s.’
The silence in the room was absolute.
‘How long will it take, Larry?’ she said.
‘Half an hour, ma’am. An hour, tops.’
‘Get it done. I’ll wait here.’
Steve was the last to go. ‘I’ll give them a hand,’ he mumbled, getting to his feet.
She was about to call him back, but the door had shut behind him.
She closed her eyes. She knew what they’d be thinking. The number of circumstances in which a man’s prints could get onto a hotel toothbrush were strictly limited. They would jump to the obvious conclusion. The correct conclusion. They would also wonder why ma’am had waited until now to present this piece of evidence, evidence which she’d been holding on to for nearly a week.
And Steve. What must he think? She’d kept quiet about finding Kenny’s phone number on Max’s Guardian. He’d baled her out then, smoothed it over, not asked awkward questions. She’d explained, he’d understood – Kenny was her partner and she’d stand by him. But this situation, this fling with Simon Hensbury, wasn’t something she could explain away. She’d cocked it up. Cocked it up royal.
She went into the corridor. Someone had put an ‘Out of Order’ sign on the coffee machine.
A young constable ambled past. ‘There’s another machine on the next floor up, ma’am. Last time I looked, it was still working.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘but what I need is something stronger.’
An hour later, they were back in the IT room. Gerry was absent.
; ‘Show me what you’ve got,’ said Von, her eyes on the screen.
With a few clicks of the mouse, Larry pulled up a number of images. ‘Whoever used the toothbrush was left-handed. He made three near-perfect prints. Here they are, underneath the bathroom tap prints.’ He hit a couple of keys. ‘This software automates the rotation of each print, and changes the magnification accordingly. Then it superimposes the images. I’ll do the thumb first.’ A minute later, he said, ‘And here are the index and middle fingers.’
Even before the images had stopped moving, she had her answer. She sat back, breathing with difficulty.
Steve’s voice broke the silence. ‘So, boss, can you tell us who these prints belong to?’
‘Chief Superintendent Simon Hensbury.’ Her voice sounded like someone else’s. ‘He was my old governor. Retired from Clerkenwell three years ago. I met him by chance last Friday. We spent the night together and in the morning he used this toothbrush.’ She was conscious of their stares, but the time for embarrassment was past. ‘I don’t need to tell you the significance of this. These prints put Hensbury in Max Quincey’s room on the day he died. That room was cleaned in the morning, so Hensbury must have visited Max in the afternoon or early evening. And the prints aren’t the only piece of evidence.’ Briefly, she went through the rest: the cigarillos, Kenny’s description, Simon’s mention of the Iron Duke, and that she’d told him Tubby was sniffing around there. ‘I think Hensbury was the one who tipped off the drugs squad,’ she said.
After an awkward pause, Larry said, ‘Couldn’t the Chief Super have told him about our investigations at the Duke, ma’am?’
‘The Chief Super doesn’t know. I’ve been keeping it from him till I was sure of the evidence.’ She registered the shock on their faces. ‘Dickie Womack told me DCI Harrower was warned off his investigations. I think the person who threatened him was Hensbury. He was Harrower’s boss at the time.’
‘I hate to say it, but this is all circumstantial,’ said Larry. He locked his fingers together. ‘It’s not evidence that will hold up in court.’
‘Which is why we need to find evidence that will. And we have to move quickly. Hensbury doesn’t yet know we’re on to him – Tubby told me Max was the Cutter, and that’s what he would have given up under the beating – but it’s only a matter of time.’