He sat back, taking an audible breath through his nose. When he rejoined his hands on the desk, one was a fist in the other, ball and socket.
‘Well, those of you who’ve seen the news today will know that we’ve moved on to chapter two in this shameful saga. While the kid who killed Kieran Clarke is safely locked up, the killer of the girl found at the old Gisborne works is not only still at large but,’ he leaned forward, bringing his face close enough to the camera that Robin could see freckles, ‘he has killed again. He has killed again. The body of another girl was found this morning. And yes – it’s another young white girl.
‘Now, we all know that West Midlands Police have taken massive budget cuts since austerity. Let’s face it, even if they hadn’t been whingeing on about it themselves – over and over again – we’d be able to work it out. Friends, the state of things in this city – have you ever seen anything like it? Murders were up seventy per cent last year. Let that sink in. Seventy. Per. Cent. Our kids aren’t safe to go to school because of knives – fucking McDonald’s have got metal detectors on the doors in the city centre. Things are so out of control that the cops have written off twelve thousand burglaries without even trying to investigate. Written off! “We’re sorry someone broke into your house and nicked the telly and the laptop and the PlayStation you earned by hard graft but we’re busy.”’ His police voice was whiny and high, female.
‘But we know the context – we’re living with it day in, day out. What I want to talk about is this guy – and it is a guy – who’s preying on our young women. At least the police have got a suspect now, three days later; small mercies, eh?’ He reached towards the bottom left-hand corner of the screen, the corner of his desk, and with a rustle like a strong wind heard over the phone, he produced a sheet of paper. Robin knew what it was before he turned it round: their CCTV still of the man leaving the factory.
‘Here he is,’ Ben Tyrell said, holding it in front of his camera until it came into focus. ‘This is the man Homicide are looking for. The description says he’s probably in his thirties, and he’s Indian or Pakistani. Well, blow me, Indian or Paki – what a bloody surprise.’
He put the picture down. For a moment, he said nothing, just nodded his head, lips pursed, as if gathering himself, a gymnast winding up to the dismount. ‘Gents,’ he said, ‘ladies and gents, I’m going to leave you with a question. Do you think that when the suspect is Indian or Paki and the Head of Homicide at West Midlands is Indian, too, maybe the cops – cops whose wages come out of taxes that decent people like you and me pay – do you think they tread more gently?’
‘Decent people, eh?’ Robin said, taking a seat in one of the bucket chairs. She hadn’t felt tired when she’d walked in but she did now. ‘At least he’s got a sense of humour.’
Samir rolled his eyes. ‘Blink and you’ll miss it.’
‘What a … knob-jockey.’ She said the word purely to make him smile and was pathetically pleased when it did. ‘Seriously, though, I see what they mean, Cyber – you told me they said he’s careful never to cross a line.’
‘Yep, it’s not quite inciting racial hatred, is it? Not quite accusing me of race-based professional misconduct.’
‘Though you could be forgiven for thinking either.’
He pulled up his chair and sat down, putting his elbows on the desk and pressing his fingertips against his lips, a posture she’d seen him in hundreds of times over the years. ‘The question is,’ he said, eyeballing her, ‘is he dangerous?’
‘What do Cyber say? Any change?’
‘No, not really, but they’re going to monitor him a bit more closely – I gave my friend there a ring. Either way, it’s another fan for the flames of customer dissatisfaction, isn’t it, if it does all kick off on these cases. You got calls from London papers today?’
‘Two. Sun and the Herald.’
He nodded. ‘If we get this guy tomorrow morning, do you reckon we’ll have our man?’
‘No way of knowing. At the moment, he was seen leaving shortly after the window for time of death and that’s it.’
‘There’s got to be a good chance, though? I mean, for one thing, how many other people can have been hanging round there in the small hours of the morning?’
Robin snorted slightly. ‘Well, you say that but: Stewpot and Martin, the homeless guys we spoke to; the other lot of homeless from the back; CCTV guy; the urban explorer … Who knows who else we’d see if we ever got any CCTV from Warwick Street. For a place that’s supposed to be abandoned, it’s like Piccadilly Circus in there.’
‘Say it isn’t him, who else is in the frame?’
‘To be honest, at the moment, no one.’
‘Lara Meikle’s partner?’
‘We’re talking to him first thing tomorrow, he’s on a train back from Plymouth as we speak. Obviously, it’s possible he went to Plymouth and visited his dad in hospital for the alibi, then drove back to Birmingham again, killed Lara, then drove back to Plymouth again in time for the Devon cops to knock on the door this morning – it’s a nine or ten-hour round trip, we’ve timed it out – but by all accounts, they were really happy together, just moved in, and her parents were aghast at the idea. Not,’ she raised her eyebrows, ‘that that means anything.’
‘How about the urban explorer?’
‘Jonathan Quinton? Again, if we ever got any CCTV from Warwick Street, we’d be in a better position to say. We’ve got traffic cams from the cross-streets but there isn’t one on Gisborne’s actual block.’
‘Stewpot and Martin?’
‘Decent, I reckon. The guy at the soup kitchen said the same.’
Samir took a long breath. ‘What about an ID for her?’
‘Nada. Nothing relevant from Missing Persons or the local PNC broadcast. We broadened it to all-forces at lunchtime but only dead ends so far.’
‘What’s your thinking?’
She grimaced. ‘Frankly? I’m stuck. There’s so little to go on. Even our idea about how plainly she was dressed – if the two cases are connected, then that’s out the window. Not that Lara was tarted to the nines but she wasn’t dressed like a ten-year-old.’ She leaned back and let the chair take the weight of her upper body. ‘Is Kilmartin phoning you on the hour, every hour?’
He shook his head. ‘Only every two hours. That’ll change, though, if things don’t go how we hope tomorrow morning. Don’t worry, you’re still in his sights.’
‘Samir, I’ve got to tell you something,’ Robin said quickly, before she could change her mind. She saw his attention sharpen. ‘I did something stupid this morning. Potentially very stupid, if it reaches Kilmartin’s ears.’
He closed his eyes. ‘Go on, rip off the plaster.’
So she told him the story: the call from Natalie and the mad dash out into the country, heart thumping. Luke on the bridge and the moment she thought he’d gone. The arrival of the police.
He listened, eyes not moving off her for a second. ‘And?’ he said when she hesitated.
‘Well, I couldn’t have denied he’d been drinking – the booze was coming off him like a cartoon skunk. So I asked the guy to turn a blind eye.’
Samir put his elbows back on the desk and his face in his hands. ‘Asked?’
‘Encouraged. With a pinch of emotional blackmail. And a hint of rank-pulling.’
He pulled a face as if he were in pain. ‘Why, Robin?’
‘He was in distress – extreme distress. I’d just seen him nearly jump off a bridge!’
‘He’d come down. You’d got him in the car.’
‘But a drink-driving charge on top of everything else that—’
‘The least of his worries, in the scheme of things.’
‘Well, I wasn’t prepared to take the risk. He’s my brother.’
He opened his mouth then stopped. Their eyes met. ‘Your brother.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘my brother.’ She stared at him until he looked away. She took a fortifying breath. Sodding, sodding Luke
– she’d happily throttle him. ‘The thing is,’ she admitted, ‘after I’d done it, he turned on me.’
Samir’s eyes were back on her immediately.
‘He threatened me. He said if I told Natalie he’d threatened to jump, he’d tell Kilmartin what I’d done.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! After you’d …? That …’ He made a face half outrage, half disgust. ‘And here was I thinking he’d wreaked enough havoc in our lives.’
He saw her expression and made an exasperated gesture. ‘What I mean is, hasn’t he already done his damage? Now he has to poleaxe your career as well? And you gave him the axe.’
‘How was I to know he’d turn round and lodge it between my shoulder blades?’
He said nothing but gave her a look: Really?
‘Samir, I’m not going to let him ruin my career.’
‘I think that decision might be out of your hands at this point, Robin.’ He paused. ‘When I called you this morning,’ he said, ‘you were with Kev.’
Blood rushed to her face. ‘I rang him. I asked him to come with me.’
Raised eyebrows. ‘You? Asking for help? Doesn’t sound like any Robin Lyons I’ve met.’
She remembered Kev pulling his shirt on, the way he hadn’t taken no for an answer. ‘I’m evolving rapidly,’ she said, ‘adapt or die.’ She made a Ha face. ‘I only needed him to drive Luke’s car back.’ She felt a guilty pang. Oh, really, Judas?
‘And did he? Drive Luke’s car back?’
Jesus. ‘No.’
‘I got the call about Lara Meikle before eight,’ Samir said, ‘and I called you pretty much immediately. You must have already been to find Luke by then because you went straight to the scene – early to phone a friend, wasn’t it?’
‘Well, I can see why you got promoted to these lofty heights, ace detective.’ She waved a hand around his office. ‘Kev’s always up early, he’s told me before. He’s at the yard by seven every day.’
‘Well, I’m up early, too,’ Samir said. ‘As you know. As I don’t need to tell you because you know. So why didn’t you call me?’
Chapter Fourteen
Robin turned off the engine and sat for a moment in the dark. The city centre sparkled at the bottom of the hill just as it had last night. Had that really only been twenty-four hours ago? She wished Kev was here now, not for any romantic reason – if romantic was the word to describe their relationship – but for the company. His warm, uncomplicated company. She felt new resentment towards Samir. ‘Of course I didn’t call you,’ she’d told him, ‘you were at home in bed with your wife. What would she think if I started calling you at six o’clock in the morning?’
‘She’d think you were calling about work,’ he’d said. ‘Or maybe because we’re friends? What about Kev’s girls? Where were they?’
‘With their mother. Oh, for crying out loud,’ she’d said, standing up. ‘I’ve got a double murder to solve, Samir, I haven’t got time for this.’ She’d stalked out, slamming his door behind her. Midway across Rhona’s office, she’d experienced the urge to kick something, and only respect for Rhona stopped her. How dare he? He was married – it would be none of his bloody business if she called Kev at two in the morning to go skinny-dipping in Gas Street Basin.
Feeling a rush of warmth towards Kev, she sent him a text: Thanks again for everything this morning. Really appreciated.
She shoved her phone in her pocket, undid her seatbelt and reached for the door handle before hesitating again. Lennie would be up – she never went to sleep before she got back. She took a few deep breaths, trying to exhale the frustration, inhale maternal calm. After thirty seconds, she gave up and got out.
Mary Street was silent. Outside the door, she fumbled her key and dropped it on the tiled step, another wave of tiredness hitting her as she stooped to pick it up. As she put it into the lock, however, she felt the back of her neck prickle. She froze, immediately alert, ears straining. Silence still – but the same feeling on her neck: someone watching. She thought of Martin Engel in his pool of streetlight outside the station – lurking in the shadows in the car park. I follow you. Had he? She hadn’t noticed anyone behind her but then, she hadn’t looked.
She pulled her keys out of the door, turned them into the knuckleduster then spun around.
No one – the street was empty. She scanned for movement, a tell-tale twitch of a foot, the flap of a jacket, but there was nothing. Even the breeze that had sprung up again during the afternoon had died away. And yet the same feeling: someone was there.
‘Mr Engel?’
Her voice echoed, bouncing off the tarmac and the quiet terraces. Nothing.
Then the tortoiseshell cat they’d seen last night darted out from underneath the neighbour’s Mondeo and, without reduction in speed, slipped between the wall and the gate of the house opposite. Robin put her hand on her chest and felt her heart pounding through her shirt. ‘Give me strength,’ she said out loud, and that echoed, too. She turned the key, opened the door, and locked it firmly behind her.
‘Mum?’ A querying voice almost immediately from the back bedroom.
‘Hi lovely. I’m on my way up – two seconds.’
As usual, Lennie had left all the lights on. In the kitchen, Robin poured a glass of wine from the bottle she’d opened with Kev then carried it upstairs, turning them off as she went.
Len’s door was open and she was reading, her knees making a tent of the duvet, a gently steaming mug of tea next to her on the bedside table. The lamp cast a circle in the corner of the room, turning the bed and walls peach-gold, spilling onto the denim rag-rug and the books piled next to the bed. The desk with its laptop, neat pile of notebooks and jam-jar of pens was half-hidden in shadow, redundant now until tomorrow. It looked like a stage set, Robin thought, spotlighted. THE MOTHER enters stage left. Late. Again …
She dropped her jacket over the back of the desk chair, took a swig of her wine and put it next to the tea. Then she clambered up into the space between Lennie and the wall, her knee finding Len’s phone in a wrinkle. She handed it to her then turned on to her back and let her body sink into the bed.
Lennie closed the book and dropped it gently to the floor.
‘What have you got there?’
‘The Crucible. For English.’
‘Like it?’
‘Yeah, a lot, it’s really good.’
‘Is it one of your GCSE texts? I thought you were doing Macbeth.’
‘Ms B gave us things to read around – witches and gender stuff.’
‘Nice. I’ve always been partial to a witch myself.’ She’d wanted to be one when she grew up, and over the years, some had said she’d achieved it. She pressed the duvet and watched it puff back up. Her parents had given it to Len for Christmas because she liked the one they had. It was goose-down, about six inches thick but light as air. She’d thought before that it was like parcel padding: Len was tucked in and posted securely to the morning. ‘How was dinner?’
‘Good.’
‘What did you have?’
‘Lasagne and garlic bread. Kath made it.’
Rather than buying it in a plastic tray. ‘What time did she drop you back?’
‘Nine.’
Robin glanced at the alarm clock: 11.07. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come.’
‘It’s okay. It’s not like you ditched us for a better offer, is it?’
Robin paused a moment, trying to work out if there was an edge there. Maybe not intentionally, but “ditched”? On the whole, she’d got off lightly on the working-mother guilt – as a single parent, she’d had to work: who else was going to do it? – but since last year, she’d become hyper-conscious of the strings of long hours.
‘Did the same person kill both those girls?’ Len asked abruptly.
‘We don’t know yet, sweetheart.’
‘But what do you think?’
‘I think we’ll know more tomorrow. We’ve got our eye on someone – with a bit of luck, we’ll pick him up
first thing.’ She stopped. No lies to Lennie had always been her rule, and even white lies, whose sole purpose had been sugar-coating, had tripped her up in the past. What she wanted to say was that everything was under control, but that would certainly be a lie, and not a white one.
Lennie reached for her mug, pressing her hands round it as if they were frozen.
From Robin’s jacket came the sound of a text arriving. ‘I’ll get it in a moment,’ she said. ‘I’ve only got it in me to stand up once more today. Tell me, how was Asha’s yesterday?’
‘Good.’ Len smiled. ‘After dinner, we had this epic table-tennis match with Austin.’ Their dad had bought them the table and set it up in their garage.
‘Did you win?’
‘One-all. But it was me and Ash versus him – two on one.’
‘He’s good, is he?’ She tried not to smile. Len had an increasingly virulent strain of mentionitis where Austin was concerned; he was often the answer even when the question was something completely different. She’d met him herself a couple of times when she’d picked Len up from the Appiahs’. He was two years older than the girls, year 12, and he was very tall and slim, apparently shy, slipping round corners like the tortoiseshell cat in his band T-shirts and low-slung jeans, but actually direct and self-possessed when she’d spoken to him. Len had described him once as ‘the right kind of geek’. ‘He’s actually interested in stuff,’ she said, ‘like music and film and politics – he runs the politics club at school. He doesn’t go round slagging things off to make himself look cool. Unlike a lot of people,’ she’d added darkly, and Robin had divined that she was alluding to her old friends in London, Carly and Emma.
Her gaze came to rest on the lampshade, one of those paper balls like a full moon. It was one of the few things that had come with the house and it looked old and tatty, she realized, the paper yellowing. A harvest moon. She’d buy a new one when she got a moment and remembered; it was lowering the tone.
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