‘How?’ asked Bryant. He tried to curb his habit of wandering around picking up random items, but in a space filled with rare literary artefacts it was a sore temptation.
‘It turned out that he’d been having problems with his sight and had recently failed a medical. He wasn’t supposed to be on duty, but I think the matter was hushed up.’
‘From what we know, there was a lot going on that night,’ May pointed out. ‘The police weren’t informed that the boy had died. Someone should have taken a statement from Ms Posner but she slipped through the system. It happens.’
‘I keep thinking that maybe if they had come and cleared the matter up with her, things would have been different,’ said Aston, growing weary of discussing the subject. ‘Instead she became more and more upset. She went to see her p-priest several times.’
‘Do you have his name?’
‘Father Michael Flynn at St George’s, but you’ll get nothing from him. “The seal of the confessional is inviolable.” That’s all I got.’
‘Why did you see him?’
‘It was just after Lauren killed herself. I wanted to know what advice he’d given her, but of course he wouldn’t tell me.’ There was a bitter edge to his voice. Aston pressed a thin hand on the rising corner of the map, smoothing it back into place. ‘When she died it felt like a comment on my own failure. Why couldn’t I see what was happening to her and stop it?’
‘So you think she killed herself as a result of feeling responsible for the accident?’
Wary of others working around him, Aston lowered his voice. ‘Mainly that. I found out what had happened from her mother. Lauren had written a letter to her parents and mailed it, but of course it arrived too late. She said she couldn’t live with the burden of knowing that she’d caused the boy’s death. I’m sure her parents would show it to you. I have her father’s work number somewhere.’ Aston opened a drawer and passed over a card.
‘Why do you think the boy’s death affected her so badly? Did she have any reason to think it was something other than an accident?’
Aston’s voice became flat and emotionless. ‘I don’t know. How does anyone ever know? Nothing was clear-cut. Nobody was sure where the glass came from. The press said he’d got dust in his eye from the tunnel, but that’s because they were running an anti-pollution campaign. They didn’t mention the glass at all. They wanted to use his death as a catalyst for change. When something odd like that happens and everyone is pushing their own agenda, where do you place the responsibility?’
‘Ms Posner didn’t suggest a theory to you or to anyone else?’
‘No. But I wondered about the nanny. She should have felt more responsible than Lauren.’ Aston touched the edges of the map with tenderness, anxious to get on.
‘Was Ms Posner drinking that night, at the party?’ asked Bryant. ‘Was that the reason why she stayed on?’
‘She used to have a problem with alcohol,’ said Aston carefully. ‘It’s in her medical records. She was trying to stay sober but had had a bad week at work and slipped off the wagon. She told me she wouldn’t drive. She seemed all right when she arrived at my place, but she was probably over the limit.’
‘So that’s why she didn’t stay with the boy. What happened in the time that followed?’
‘Things just kept getting worse. Her mother, her friends, we all tried to get her to see someone. When she couldn’t handle the guilt any more she swallowed a handful of sleeping pills, washed them down with vodka and sat on a bench in Greenwich Park, looking out at her favourite view. She just went to sleep. The doctor said it was peaceful. So the tragedy didn’t end on the night Charlie Forester died.’
‘I’m afraid it still hasn’t ended,’ said Bryant, rising and retrieving his homburg.
‘All I have left is this.’ Aston pulled something from beneath his sleeve. ‘It belonged to Lauren. I can use it here.’ He tenderly placed the handkerchief under the edge of his palm. ‘It stops the ink from smudging.’
31
‘WE’RE THE ONES WHO HAVE TO CARE’
‘I didn’t think they’d do it – nobody did,’ insisted Colin, pushing his way back through the shouting crowds that had once more gathered around the railings of Russell Square Gardens. ‘They’re bloody crazy.’ The students, union groups and coachloads of elderly day-trippers had now formed an unlikely alliance and were chanting a variety of awkward slogans, including ‘Two, four, six, eight, we don’t need our parks with gates.’
‘The papers are whipping this up,’ Meera said. ‘They knew there would be protests.’
After it had become known that a third woman had been found strangled, Faraday’s PR machine went into overdrive. Nobody could deny that something needed to be done, but nobody felt that closing off public spaces was the right answer. This was clearly what Faraday had hoped for. Unlocking the gates and introducing private security would be welcomed as a perfect trade-off. However, his machinations had set him on a collision course with the Metropolitan Police, who had been made to look useless.
‘They’re trying to make a point,’ said Colin, ‘to remind everyone who owns the parks that it’s a right that can be taken away. Let’s get out of here before it all kicks off. Some of these pensioners can get really nasty.’
Colin and Meera were taking a break before heading into their evening shift and, like many others in the city, wanted to see what was happening around the locked parks. The low clouds were flavescent with reflected light. The top of the Shard glowed inside an angry swirl of vapour. It felt like a night for disobedience. Hundreds of red balloons bearing the legend ‘Public Not Private’ had been tied on park railings everywhere. A Maginot Line of police in hi-vis canary-coloured jackets was fighting to hold back a troop of stroppy seniors from Cardiff. One constable had to be hospitalized after being hit with a pot of clematis.
‘I want to go back to St Olave’s churchyard,’ Colin said. ‘Will you drive me there?’
Meera tried to keep up but he strode ahead. ‘Why?’ she called above the crowd noise.
‘I was the one who found her, Meera. Do you know what that’s like? If I’d got there a few minutes earlier, if the traffic hadn’t been so bad – it’s just like that kid she was looking after. He wouldn’t have died if she’d walked a different way to the station with him.’ He waited for Meera to catch him up. ‘My old gran used to tell us a story about a bomb falling into her street during the war, just as she was crossing it. She said she nearly turned back to the house to get her hat, but she didn’t. If she had, she’d have been killed.’
‘Yeah, but everyone of her age has a story like that, Colin. It’s just chance. The boy died because a dozen different elements lined up. It was unlucky, that’s all—’
‘These women,’ he said, silencing her. ‘They weren’t unlucky, Meera, they were stalked and killed. Darren Link always says the unit is too slow to react. It’s because Mr Bryant spends his time going through mad old books instead of doing what we do, churning data and digging into rubbish bins to try to prove guilt the hard way.’
‘I thought you were his biggest fan,’ said Meera, unlocking her Kawasaki.
‘I am, but he’s too slow to catch someone like this. He reckons this guy isn’t striking randomly because he went after the nanny twice. But what if he’s just doing it because he’s fixated on a small group of women and his demons are driving him to kill? Three deaths in four days – what will he have done by the weekend?’
‘He won’t be able to do it in a park any more,’ she said, starting the bike. ‘Get on.’
They kept away from the darkling crowds and pulled up outside the churchyard a little after six. Beyond the tall iron gates nothing was visible. ‘Now what?’ she asked. ‘Even the doors here are locked.’
‘Then we go in over the railing.’
‘What’s the point? What are you expecting to find?’
‘I don’t know, OK? I just need to see. You can wait here if you want.’
She switc
hed off the bike. ‘No, I’m coming with you. Help me over.’
Putting a boot in his locked hands she scrambled over the railing, helping to pull him up from the other side.
There were no lights showing through the stained-glass windows of the church. Here on the path beneath the caliginous bushes, it was so gloomy that Colin needed to use his torch. As they followed the walkway around it grew darker still. At the far end of the shallow garden stood another gate that led to an alley running along one side of the church.
Puzzled, Meera went over and pushed against it. ‘It’s open,’ she said, looking back at Colin.
‘This way.’ Colin headed for the cover of the trees. Dan Banbury’s plastic ribbons could be seen roping off the spot where the nanny’s body had fallen.
Meera caught up with him. ‘Why are we here?’ she asked.
‘I want to help the old man.’ Colin withdrew his phone and checked the settings. ‘Mr Bryant wasn’t happy with Dan’s shots of the site. He made a fuss about taking them from a different angle.’
‘Why?’
‘He didn’t say. You know what he’s like; it’s impossible to figure out what’s going on in his head and he’ll never give you a straight answer. I think he has ideas even he can’t explain. I reckon he’s on to something but doesn’t want to tell anyone yet.’
Dropping on to one knee, Colin aimed the phone and fired off a series of shots, the flash flattening the scene with bright cold light. It showed tufts of grass, leaves, a disturbance in the gravel path.
‘What’s that?’ Meera asked.
Before either of them could get any closer the bushes parted and a hunched shape rolled towards them, unfurling and rising. The figure of a man rose and lashed out, connecting with Colin and knocking him off balance. Meera threw herself at his back but slid off, and then they were all running, the figure ahead, she and Colin just feet away.
He beat them to the opened gate and slipped through, trying to pull it shut behind him, but Colin caught the bars and prevented them from closing. They dashed down the narrow path at the side of the church, squeezing past a brick outcrop that extended almost to its width.
With Meera ahead of him, Colin knew there was only one way they would bring down their quarry. A tap on her shoulder was the signal; as Colin dropped to one knee she placed a boot into his hands and let him lift her high like a shot-putter, sending her into the air. She landed squarely on the running man’s back, bringing him down. With a shocked yell he slammed on to the gravel path. She turned him over and shone a light into his face.
They found themselves looking into the frightened features of a sixteen-year-old boy. ‘He’s a kid,’ said Meera. ‘What are you doing in here, mate? What’s in the bag?’
In one raised hand he held a white plastic Tesco bag. While Meera sat on him, Colin reached over and disentangled it from the boy’s fingers. Carefully he opened the top and looked inside.
‘What is this?’ he asked again.
‘Can’t breathe—’ wheezed the boy.
‘Meera, get off his chest for a second.’
‘If you try to go anywhere I’ll stamp on your spine,’ warned Meera, climbing off. The boy rose and coughed. He said something that sounded like ‘It’s Muddabay.’
‘What’s he saying? Where are you from?’
‘Trakai. Trakai.’
‘What’s that?’ Meera looked at Colin.
‘It’s a town near Vilnius, in Lithuania,’ said Colin. ‘He’s Lithuanian.’
‘What’s Muddabay?’ Meera patted him down and removed a pen from the pocket of his jeans. ‘What’s this?’
‘It’s a laser pen.’ Colin held it up and flicked on the red beam. ‘The smart little sod. Kids put out the CCTVs with them by overloading the imaging sensors.’
‘What did he take from the site?’
Colin pushed a hand into the bag and drew up gravel in his fingers. ‘Where’d you get this from? Show us.’
The boy led them along the alley while Meera hung on to the back of his blue nylon jacket. When they reached the area that the crime scene manager had roped off, the boy dipped beneath the ribbon and brought them to the edge of the path, pointing to a shallow dip in the shale.
‘He dug it out of there. What did you do this for, mate?’
The boy indicated that he wanted to take something from his pocket, but was understandably wary. Removing his phone (which, Colin noted, was a newer and better model than his own) he thumbed through the web pages and turned the screen towards them.
‘Jeez, the little bugger’s putting souvenirs from the murder sites online,’ said Meera, amazed.
The screen showed clumps of earth, stones and pieces of slate taken from the gardens where the bodies had been found. A collection of stones from Russell Square Gardens was accompanied by photographs of provenance showing them in situ. ‘You’re going to love this, Colin. “MurderBay, the Crime Scene Collectors’ Site”, based in Arizona. Money for old rope – literally. Who do we know who works in a park and owns a professional camera?’ She turned to the cowering boy. ‘Do you know Ritchie Jackson? Did he put you up to this?’
The boy stared at her blankly. ‘Damn,’ said Colin. ‘I guess that would have been a little too neat. Show me exactly where you took this from.’
The boy accepted the bag from him and emptied it over the small ditch he had dug, perfectly filling the hole. As Colin shone his torch over it he spotted something glittering. Reaching forward, he extracted several small grey seamed pellets, rolling them in his broad palm. ‘Were these here?’
Anxious to be let off, the boy nodded vigorously.
Colin raised his hand to show Meera. ‘What are they?’ she asked.
‘It’s lead shot,’ said Colin. ‘She was strangled, just like the others. But it looks like someone fired at her first. Why would they have done that?’
‘Maybe it was hers and she dropped it,’ said Meera. ‘What’s it used for?’
‘I don’t know – hunting geese, fishing, putting into belts.’
‘So we’re after a frustrated duck hunter?’ asked Meera.
‘Shot towers,’ said Colin. ‘That’s the only other thing I know. They make it by dripping molten lead in tall towers. The metal becomes spherical as it falls, and there’s water at the bottom so it hardens at once. There are still a few towers left in London but I don’t suppose they’re operational any more.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because lead was reclassed as highly toxic and can’t be used for hunting birds. So they have to use non-lead alternatives.’
He shook the mix of gravel and shot at the frightened lad: ‘What is this?’
‘They pay me money,’ was all he said.
‘How? How do they get in touch with you?’
‘Online, man – what you think?’
They let the boy go. ‘Blimey, he’s got some front, hasn’t he?’ said Meera, watching him run off. ‘A right little entrepreneur.’
‘These are tough times to be young.’ There was an odd catch in Colin’s voice, as if he was thinking about someone in particular.
They headed back to Meera’s Kawasaki. ‘It’s weird.’ Colin glanced up at the darkened church. ‘We find rifle ammunition and daggers, everything but the actual murder weapon. It’s like Cluedo. I was in Chiswick Park with my mum once when I was a nipper – an amazing place, a bit of Palladian Italy in West London, statues, follies and this thing called an Exedra, a semicircular yew hedge with a lawn and cypresses and white stone urns, dead posh, and I was walking around and found a loaded gun, a Glock revolver, lying right in the middle of the lawn. I took it back to my old man – ’cause you know he was a copper – and he told me it had been fired three times. D’you know what he said? “There’s probably a body buried under one of those trees, but unless someone cares enough to make a fuss it’ll probably stay there for ever.”’
‘And is there some kind of life lesson you want me to draw from that?’
‘We’re the o
nes who have to care,’ Colin told Meera. ‘Don’t you see that? Everyone else is out for themselves.’ He looked at the bike. ‘No, don’t give me a lift. This is getting to me. I think I want to walk by myself for a while.’
She watched as he walked away into the wet night with his head down and his hands in his pockets, and could not stop herself from feeling that she had in some way disappointed him.
THE FIFTH DAY
32
‘THERE ARE NO UNANSWERED QUESTIONS LEFT’
At seven thirty on Friday morning the passengers on the top decks of the buses passing Clement Crescent caught brief glimpses of what appeared to be a film shoot taking place beyond the plane trees.
As Steffi Vesta was the only woman in the unit who could remotely pass for the deceased (although she was nearly six inches too tall), she had been enrolled to play the part of Helen Forester in the re-enactment of Monday’s murder.
Having been against the idea from the start, the detectives were staying back at the PCU, but Raymond Land insisted that the replay should go ahead with himself as the director.
Every detail had been checked for veracity. Beauchamp the terrier had now been adopted by Margo Farrier and was on hand for the occasion, Colin Bimsley had been wedged into the bushes as a replacement for Jeremy Forester, and in an interesting bit of colour-blind casting Jack Renfield had been awarded the part of the gardener. Ritchie Jackson stood to one side making sure that everyone was in the right place. With Banbury recording and Land watching from a safe distance, the scene was set.
‘We need to start now,’ said Land, checking his watch. ‘Steffi, if you would?’
She peered over the gate. ‘You are ready for me?’
‘Yes – action.’
Vesta had trouble twisting the key in the lock.
‘Stop, stop,’ called Land.
‘You’re supposed to say “Cut”,’ Colin told him.
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