‘Be nice if he did cut loose from time to time – wears the weight of the world on his shoulders, this one. Always has done,’ she said.
‘You wouldn’t want me any other way,’ said Walker.
‘Honestly, you two are something else. What’s your secret?’ said Colin.
‘Vodka,’ said Christine, and they all laughed.
The day went well and both Martin and Christine stayed for the duration, as they always did. The clearing up process was underway when the call came. Walker didn’t recognise the number, but he certainly knew the voice. It was one he’d hoped he’d never hear again.
‘Hello, skipper,’ said Phil Maddox. Walker groaned inwardly. Whatever he wanted needed to be closed down fast. He turned to his wife and smiled pleasantly.
‘Just got to take this – I’ll only be five minutes. Grab us a Bakewell before we go, eh?’ He winked at her and headed out of the back door into a small courtyard at the rear of the church.
‘I thought we’d agreed to go our separate ways, Phil?’ he said, trying hard to keep his voice light.
‘Have you seen the news?’
‘No, I’ve been out all day. What news?’
‘It’s all over Twitter . . .’
‘What is? I’m not on Twitter.’
‘Someone’s been killed – at a wedding . . .’ He sounded frantic now. ‘Adesh’s wedding.’
Walker licked his lips; they felt as dry as old leaves.
‘Do you mean Adesh has been killed?’
‘I don’t know; the police haven’t said. But the word on Twitter is that it might be the groom.’
‘But you don’t know for certain?’
‘They’re saying he was burnt to death . . .’
Walker tried to process what he was being told. He breathed hard, but couldn’t focus.
‘Twitter’s full of bollocks, just kids in their bedrooms spreading second-hand gossip.’
‘Someone knows, Martin . . . knows what we did.’
‘We didn’t do anything.’
That wasn’t true, but it felt like the right thing to say. Paranoia may be kicking in, but he wasn’t going to admit to anything. Especially to a weak man he hadn’t spoken to in five years. For all he knew Adesh Kaul was sipping a pina colada on a beach somewhere right now.
‘Don’t you get it, Marty? Someone’s found out. They’ve tracked him down and killed him for it.’
‘Get a grip, Phil. We don’t know anything about it, even if it’s true. It’s just speculation on the internet.’
‘I’m telling you because I thought you’d want to know. You or me – we could be next . . .’
Walker’s mind was racing. Whatever worst-case scenarios Maddox could come up with, his own brain was already fanning out like a pack of cards.
‘Stay calm, panicking’s not going to help.’
‘What do you want to do?’
Maddox sounded like a little boy, thought Walker. If someone did know, then the last thing any of them needed was a present-day trail linking them to the past. He needed Maddox to go away.
‘I’ll be in touch, Phil.’
Chapter 6
Maddox looked out of the window and beat down a wave of nausea. He already regretted ringing Walker, but hadn’t known what else to do. He looked at the view from his window. He could see the blue shimmer of the Thames, and the four rebuilt chimneys of Battersea Power Station in the middle distance. For once the vista did little to settle his nerves. Walker hadn’t taken him seriously. Nothing new there then; he hadn’t shown him much respect back in the day either. But this needed to be taken seriously, because Adesh was dead. He was quite certain of it now.
He breathed in deeply and forced himself to think. Tomorrow he’d change the locks – perhaps look at putting in a reinforced security door. He’d always felt relatively safe here; it was one of the reasons he’d bought the place. The front door to his flat was the only entrance and three floors up there was no way for someone to break in. He went over to his desk, sat down at his computer and brought up the London Fire Brigade’s Twitter page, but it hadn’t been updated. There was nothing on the Met Police Twitter either, so he flicked to the London Ambulance page and immediately found what he was looking for:
London Ambulance Service @Ldn_Ambulance
We responded along with our colleagues @metpoliceuk to an incident this afternoon at the Manor Park Hotel in Morden. Sadly, there was one fatality. We have treated two other people and have taken them to hospital.
There it was in black and white – official confirmation. It might not have named Adesh, but it as good as rubber-stamped what he’d read earlier. Maddox unplugged his phone from its charger. He found the number he wanted and waited for the call to connect. An answerphone cut in.
‘This is Gary Elder. I can’t take your call right now but if you leave your name and number and I like the sound of you, I’ll call you back . . .’
Maddox cut the call off without speaking. If Walker was still exactly the same pompous arse he’d always been, then Gary hadn’t changed either – still a facetious twat apparently.
He found another number, breathing out as a familiar voice greeted him.
‘Stu . . . it’s Phil Maddox.’
There was a beat of silence on the other end, before finally Stuart Portbury replied.
‘Phil . . . ?’
He sounded bemused, as if unsure whether to encourage the conversation.
‘I know we said we wouldn’t contact each other, but something’s happened. I think we may be in trouble, mate. I think it might be connected to Pacific Square . . .’
Chapter 7
YoYo’s Cafe was a familiar haunt for officers at Cedar House. Sat directly opposite the station, it was a place where DC’s and DAC’s alike could enjoy an uncomplicated cup of coffee with the unwritten rule that stripes were checked in at the door. Finn reckoned Yolande, the proprietor, could probably make a half-decent inspector herself given how much police business she’d soaked up over the years. At half past seven in the morning, there were only a few stragglers left from the overnight shift as Finn walked in to meet the waiting Skegman. The DCI was sat in the corner looking out of the window like a man lost in his own world, but Finn knew him better than that. Those darting eyes wouldn’t have missed much; who was in the room, what titbits of gossip were being exchanged. There was a lazy assumption from a few junior officers that Skegman didn’t know what was going on at shop floor level. There was a reason they were wrong.
Skegman’s eyes bored into him even as he flashed a brisk smile of welcome and it told Finn all he needed to know. The game within the game – the assessment of his emotional suitability to return to the front lines – was already underway. Now the moment was here Finn wasn’t quite as bullish as he’d felt the previous evening. He was tired from what felt like the umpteenth night of fitful sleep. Bereavement was wearing, he’d come to realise. Over the years he’d perfected the art of parking his emotions. He firmly believed the more dispassionate you were, the better the police officer it made you. But that approach didn’t allow for the tidal wave of grief currently washing over him, which couldn’t simply be waved away. It certainly wasn’t the best preparation for the kind of scrutiny he knew Skegman was about to put him under. For a fleeting moment he’d considered calling their meeting off, but as he’d picked at his breakfast he’d felt the walls of the flat closing in on him again. Exhausted and hurt he may be, but he also knew sitting at home wasn’t going to help.
Yolande hobbled over, her bad back still causing her to wheeze, with a jug of filter coffee in her hand and a disapproving look on her face.
‘You shouldn’t be back so soon,’ she said, pouring out a stream of hot black liquid into a mug. ‘And you shouldn’t be encouraging him,’ she said to Skegman, before refilling his cup and shuffling away, not remotely interested in a reply. Both men smiled, and Finn let the DCI break the ice.
‘Nice service yesterday. Can’t have been easy. I s
houldn’t think last night was much fun either.’
‘No. But I’m glad it’s out of the way.’
‘She has a point. It’s less than a week since Karin died.’
‘I began grieving when she was diagnosed, to be honest. Think I was all cried out by yesterday evening,’ he lied. ‘If it’s a choice between sitting at home or getting on with things, I know what I’d rather do.’
‘If it’s a choice between you sitting at home or screwing up an investigation, I know what I’d rather you did.’
‘Grief doesn’t work like that, or at least mine doesn’t – I still have my faculties.’
‘It’s more your focus than your faculties that concerns me, Alex.’
‘So give me something to focus on; tell me about this man who died.’
Skegman sized him up for a moment.
‘I’m going to repeat what I said yesterday – have you really thought this through? You know what an investigation like this will ask of you . . . the hours you’ll need to put in. How early you’ll need to be here, how late you’ll be leaving. Then there’s the levels of concentration required. Now marry that with how you’re feeling and ask yourself if you can give of your best.’
‘Tell me about the man who died,’ repeated Finn.
Skegman ran his tongue around his cheek for a moment, then reached a decision. The game within the game, again.
‘His name was Adesh Kaul. He was thirty-seven years old and married his fiancée Stephanie Clough just hours before it happened. He’s a former firefighter with the LFB and left the service five years ago to set up his own fire safety consultancy. From what we can gather there were a lot of local businesses on his books: offices, restaurants, shops, that sort of thing.’
‘Ex-firefighter, running a fire consultancy . . . who gets immolated at his own wedding. Dissatisfied customer?’ said Finn.
‘Extraordinarily, the same thought occurred to us. We’re going through his business dealings with a fine-tooth comb.’
‘Can’t be a coincidence though – the manner of death?’
‘We’re keeping an open mind. Early indications are that he was a popular man; everything we’re getting back suggests a much-loved son and brother, with no obvious enemies.’
‘Well, there was at least one – torching someone on their wedding day feels pretty personal to me. If you just wanted the guy out of the way you’d pick something a little less showy.’
When it came to these things, Finn came armed with experience – over twenty-five years in all. Murder nearly always tended to boil down to one of the four Ls: Lust, Love, Loathing or Loot. Every now and then there was one that defied categorisation; the actions of a sadist or a madman. More often than not though, the motivation was more straightforward, and instinctively that’s how this felt to him. He watched a tired-looking uniformed PC in the corner slurp at his tea, as he mulled it for a moment.
‘Someone somewhere hated this bloke – really hated him. They picked his wedding day for a reason. I’d want to have a look into the bride – see if there’s any dodgy exes lurking somewhere. Also, check out her workmates; look for any potential stalker material. How have the interviews at the crime scene gone? The hotel staff and the wedding guests?’
Finn was talking matter-of-factly now, as if he’d already accepted an offer to lead the investigation. Two could play that game. The small hint of wry in Skegman’s expression told him the other man knew precisely what he was trying to do.
‘Nothing much is jumping out so far. Everyone’s still in shock. The bride’s been under sedation since it happened, as have several members of Kaul’s family. But there were nearly two hundred people there. It’s going to take a while to get through them. The hotel staff said it was one of the smoothest events they’d ever handled. The two families were easy to deal with, things went quietly on the day – everything was pretty tame until . . .’
‘. . . someone burnt the groom to a crisp,’ said Finn, more thoughtfully than the words suggested. ‘If he was thirty-seven, then he quit the fire service at thirty-two . . . that’s quite young. Any idea why?’
‘The word from his station manager was that he wanted to do something less hazardous. He’d been under pressure from his family to find something else.’
It wasn’t unusual, thought Finn. The same happened to police as well. You never forgot you were putting your life on the line every day, but it was true you could become used to the feeling. It was different for your loved ones. Karin never stopped worrying.
‘What’s your take on it?’ Finn asked. The DCI rarely offered opinions this early in an investigation, preferring to wait until enough evidence and facts were gathered. It never hurt to ask him though. In his own way Skegman was as methodical as Finn, which is probably why the two men worked so well together. ‘Two cheeks of the same arse,’ Karin once described them in exasperation.
‘Like you, this feels to me like someone sending a message, and whoever did it was good. No one seems to have seen anything out of the ordinary.’
‘Have we got a list of everyone who was there, including the hotel staff?’ he asked.
‘Yes. But I can’t guarantee it’s exhaustive,’ said Skegman.
‘Then you can’t rule out the possibility someone managed to slip in unnoticed. Sometimes the easiest place to hide is in a crowd. This could be a professional hit.’ While Skegman digested the idea, Finn decided to go on the front foot.
‘Who’d be in my team? I’d like Jackie Ojo if she’s free?’
‘DS Ojo’s working the Thornton Heath stabbing. But someone’s just transferred in who I think you might find interesting.’
Interesting was one word, thought Finn. Unexpected transfers held the potential to be political or expedient, and were frequently both.
‘Her name’s DC Mathilde Paulsen. We’ve got her from Dunlevy Road, where she was very highly regarded by DI Bullen.’
‘So why’s she moving on?’
‘Her last investigation was into a suspected paedophile. I don’t know the ins and outs, but apparently it affected her.’
Finn nodded. That was fair enough; he didn’t know an officer who hadn’t gone through something similar at some point. Sometimes a transfer was a way of wiping the slate clean.
‘She’s something of an enigma,’ Skegman continued. ‘I get the sense she’s lost her way a bit. I think she could use some direction.’
Finn thought about it, then shook his head.
‘With respect, I don’t need a project, I need a good detective.’
‘You’re dictating terms now. So you’re coming back then?’ said Skegman. ‘We’ve agreed this, have we?’
Finn smiled. Skegman didn’t.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘There’s nothing straightforward here. Not with the case, not with Paulsen, and not with you. I’ll be honest, all of that makes me feel uncomfortable.’
‘It’s your call. I’ll respect whatever decision you make.’
Skegman stared hard out of the window for a moment.
‘Alright, Alex, we’ll see how it goes. But I’ll be watching – any sign your attention’s elsewhere . . .’
Finn acknowledged the warning with the smallest of nods. The truth was he couldn’t tell how he’d cope, but he needed this and it felt a relief.
‘If I can’t have Ojo, how about Gemma Danson?’
‘Also on another job. I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. You said it yourself on the phone yesterday, we’re stretched. DC Paulsen may not be what you want, but she’s what you’ve got.’ There was another pause and Finn could see Skegman was still very unsure.
‘I’ll be fine, John,’ said Finn.
Their relationship had always been solid, and it was honest too. Finn felt the assurance was sincerely given. At least he hoped it was. Skegman stood up.
‘DC Paulsen starts tomorrow morning. You can meet her then.’ He picked up his bag and hooked its strap over his shoulder.
‘D
o you rate her?’ asked Finn.
‘I think I’ve already answered that, haven’t I?’
‘Not really.’
‘Alex, I wouldn’t put her with you if there wasn’t something there.’ He smiled enigmatically. ‘You’ll see . . .’
Chapter 8
The sun shone down on Regent’s Park as Mattie Paulsen glared daggers at the screaming toddler hurtling towards her. A quick sidestep meant she dodged the melting ice lolly being wielded in a flailing hand. A few steps behind, her partner Nancy Deen also weaved out of the way, giggling at their near miss. They both watched as the little girl’s mother caught up and began to chide her.
‘You were like that once,’ said Nancy.
‘I was never like that.’
‘Bollocks. Bet you were the tantrum queen . . .’
The vaguest hint of a smile began to form on Mattie’s face, and she turned her head to hide it. Nancy grinned.
‘I see you.’
Mattie flipped a large pair of sunglasses down from her head and stood for a moment to enjoy the warmth of the sun. On a beautiful day where plenty of people were out dressed up for summer, she still cut a distinctive figure. Paulsen was twenty-six, with a short bob of jet black hair, a wide mouth and high cheekbones. Her mixed-race heritage meant she didn’t fit the usual Scandinavian stereotypes, even if her slightly lilting accent tended to betray her.
In twenty-four hours she’d be starting at Cedar House, and in the strange hinterland between jobs it felt good to be out enjoying the sunshine. Events at Dunlevy Road still weighed heavy on her mind. They weren’t the sort of memories which would disappear quickly – the things that happened on that other summer’s day, not so long ago, remained vivid. She exhaled and turned to Nancy, burying the thoughts once more.
‘So what do you want to do then?’
‘Can you not make it sound like a chore? We’re supposed to be having fun.’
‘I am having fun.’
‘You don’t seem very relaxed.’
The Burning Men Page 3