The Divinities

by Parker Bilal

  CHAPTER 5

  Kelly Marsh led the way across to an ambulance where a small, wizened man with a grey beard was shrouded in a blanket and sipping tea. Mr Cricket. Not quite.

  ‘Mr Karattack?’ Kelly double-checked the name she had scribbled down in her notebook.

  ‘Kardax, Kardax.’ The man nodded vigorously, tapping his chest. ‘Ali Kardax.’

  ‘I understand you found them?’ Kelly pointed over his shoulder. The man followed her hand. ‘The bodies, right?’

  This sparked a stream of words, some of which might have been in English, all of which were unintelligible. London was like a complex puzzle that you were forever trying to figure out. Kelly appealed to Drake.

  ‘You see what I mean?’

  ‘Slow down there,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll make a call, maybe we can get an interpreter. I don’t even know what language he’s speaking.’

  ‘Kurdish,’ said Drake. ‘It’s Kurdish.’

  ‘Right . . .’

  ‘Kurmanji, I think. The common dialect in the Kurdish area.’

  ‘Which you just happen to speak?’ Kelly raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I picked up a few words when I was stationed there. It’s related to Persian.’

  ‘If you say so, chief.’

  ‘If he says what?’

  They both turned to see Milo’s lanky figure ambling towards them, coffee in hand.

  ‘Here he is,’ beamed Kelly. ‘The boy wonder himself.’

  Drake squatted down beside Mr Kardax. His face was lined and his eyes were deep and expressive. He seemed amused and nodded towards Milo.

  ‘See if you can fetch a coffee for him,’ Drake translated.

  The witness smiled, nodding his appreciation. Clearly, he understood some English. Drake spoke, using the few words he could remember from his time in Kurdish Iraq.

  ‘He comes every day at the same time. Every morning he opens the gates to let the workers in. There is no trouble here. Never trouble. Until today.’

  It was all about tempo. Kardax was trying to speak English, but Drake suspected that Kelly had been going too quickly for him, and not listening carefully enough. Milo returned with the coffee. The gatekeeper grew more agitated and his speech became faster and less coherent until Drake finally had to give up. He turned aside, shaking his head.

  ‘We need to make some calls and get a proper interpreter down here.’

  ‘Aye, aye, boss.’

  Inside the site offices the workers were gathered around the site supervisor, an overweight figure in a hi-vis jacket, a safety hat wobbling on his head. Clearly, not a happy man.

  ‘You’ve got nothing to worry about,’ he was saying, raising his voice to calm the storm. The men didn’t look convinced. They pushed roughly past Drake on their way out.

  ‘And you are?’ the man called to Drake as he approached him.

  Drake waved his badge. The man removed his hard hat, wiped the back of his hand across a sweaty forehead.

  ‘We’re thirty days behind schedule. If we don’t finish on time we get penalized. You want to explain that to my boss?’ He sounded Welsh and out of his depth. The room was small and cramped.

  ‘Your first time out as supervisor?’

  ‘No.’ He glanced around the room as if wondering what had given him away. ‘Second.’

  ‘Okay, so,’ Drake leaned forward to squint at the tag around his neck, ‘Steven, you’re going to call everyone and tell them that everything is on hold until we finish our work here.’

  ‘Everyone?’

  ‘Meaning: head office, suppliers, technicians, specialists, deliveries. The whole schedule is going to be put back.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘You’ve got two bodies lying out there in the rain, pal. This is not your average weekday.’

  ‘Right.’ Steven stared dumbly back at Drake, as if he’d said something offensive.

  ‘Good. Then I need a list of all your employees, and I mean official and unofficial.’ Drake held up a hand to stem the protests even before he had finished speaking.

  The site supervisor screwed up his face scornfully. ‘We don’t even know half their names.’

  ‘Then perhaps it’s about time you did.’

  He was younger than he had first appeared. Just a kid really, who’d no doubt been told to keep his head down and cut as many corners as he could. He was also probably terrified of most of the people in his charge.

  ‘We don’t want to scare anyone off, okay? Remind them we’re not from Immigration Enforcement. We’re after whoever did this. That’s all. Whether they are here legally is not our concern. All I want is their cooperation.’

  ‘They’re not going to believe you. They don’t trust any officials.’

  ‘They trust you, right? Do it in person. They still want to work when this is over. All they have to do is answer some questions. Also, I’m interested in no-shows. Anyone who didn’t turn up this morning, understand?’

  His eyes darted left and right. He ran a hand over his mouth. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’

  Drake stepped closer. ‘Are you on something?’

  He stepped back clumsily, bumping into a wall. ‘I have a condition.’

  ‘Great. Well, try to keep it together.’

  Outside, the workers were huddled by the fence. They had separated into small groups. Brits on one side, Europeans on another, with Asians, Arabs and all parts further afield making up a third faction. The one thing they shared was the worried look on their faces.

  ‘We need to be quick,’ Drake said. ‘They are about ready to bolt.’

  ‘Not a happy man,’ Kelly observed as they watched the supervisor approaching his workers.

  ‘He’ll survive.’

  In the distance, the SOCOs or crime-scene officers could be seen packing away their equipment to head back to the lab. Another group was still going over the truck, dusting doors, the interior, the buttons of the control box. The name on the side was Dobson Creek. Drake took in the whole scene. The hole in the ground, the tomb, as Milo would have it, and the backdrop of the cement skeleton and the river beyond. Somebody had gone to a lot of trouble to set up this killing ground. The question was why.

  CHAPTER 6

  Raven Hill was something of a lost outpost that had long been neglected. There were always rumours of a facelift in the offing, something involving paint and knocking through some plasterboard. Until that little miracle happened they would be stuck with cramped offices, nicotine-yellow walls and boxy corridors, along with tea-stained carpets and peeling wallpaper that almost gave it a retro 1980s look. Almost.

  Coming back here six months ago, Drake had discovered that the police station had pretty much remained unchanged since he was sent north nearly two years ago. Anything that might be described as improvement was mostly superficial; new ceiling panels, a splash of colour here and there, a few posters encouraging officers to be creative in their approach, to apply ‘blue sky thinking’, whatever that was. The Murder Room, as it had always been known, remained essentially the same. True, they kept changing the name, which was clearly somebody’s idea of progress. For a time it was the Violent Crime Unit, then it became Homicide and Serious Crimes Command. It didn’t change the nature of what they were dealing with, which was probably why everyone still called it the Murder Room.

  Every other station Drake happened to visit seemed to be inhabited by eager young officers devoted to online abuse, cyber-stalking, physical stalking, bullying, along with a hit list of other twenty-first-century offences. They had open-plan workspaces, up-to-date computers, modern filing systems. Raven Hill seemed to be stuck in the dark ages. It wasn’t that Drake longed for modernization. Far from it. He shuddered at the thought of those grey workspaces where people hunched silently over their keyboards, swiping their smart phones, and whispering to themselves.

  Wheeler had been tasked with salvaging Raven Hill, although Drake often wondered if he was really there to ove
rsee the station’s dismantling and demise. Everything was moving towards centralizing the force around the Curtis Green building now known as New Scotland Yard.

  Drake spotted Milo at his desk as he came in. He had boxed himself into a corner of the Murder Room using filing cabinets and flimsy walls. Less of an office and more of a fortress. His workspace was dominated by two oversized flat screens, along with countless other gadgets, all sewn together with cables.

  ‘Any luck with the CCTV?’

  ‘There are two cameras around the entrance to the site. One right overhead the Porsche we found. Problem is that both of them appear to be out of commission.’

  ‘Coincidence or enemy action?’

  ‘I’ve been on to the outfit that runs security. They promised to look into it.’

  ‘Keep on at them, Milo. We’re on a countdown. Time is not our friend.’

  ‘Right, boss.’

  Kelly appeared carrying bags of sandwiches and a tray of coffee. She went around the room delivering the orders, ending with Milo. Drake wound up empty handed.

  ‘Sorry, chief, you weren’t on the list.’

  ‘I won’t take it personally, but if I drink the stuff that comes out of the machine and it kills me, you’ll only have yourself to blame.’

  ‘We’ll go into mourning. It’s not personal.’

  ‘It never is,’ murmured Drake.

  Someone had helpfully rolled a large notice board in to fence off one side. A large map of the city covered half of this. Drake stared at Magnolia Quays, wondering if the geographic location might have some significance. He ran a finger along the narrow cut that led away from the site to where it met the York Road. To the north and south of the site were warehouses.

  ‘Did we check these?’

  Kelly looked up from the croissant she was eating. ‘There’s nothing there. Converted or disused warehouses. An antique store, used furniture, that sort of thing, all awaiting extinction.’

  He knew what she meant. In a couple of years they would be gone. Ripped down to make way for new properties.

  ‘Get uniforms to pay them a visit. We need to keep track of all of it.’

  ‘I’m on it.’ Dropping the half-finished croissant, Kelly dusted her hands off. ‘What’s that?’

  Drake’s finger had carried on the line south-east from the site across the York Road and into Battersea to arrive at a complex of low housing blocks set around an open square.

  ‘The Freetown estate.’

  ‘More like Troubleville,’ Kelly snorted.

  ‘Ever been there?’

  ‘I’ve been through it a few times at high speed, if that counts.’

  ‘I lived there for a time.’

  ‘Interesting. Well, whatever it was, it’s not the same. Believe you me. Nowadays it’s more like Baghdad.’

  ‘I heard some things had improved.’

  ‘You know how it is. They throw some paint at it and like a magic cape all is solved. Emperor’s New Clothes.’

  Drake wandered out to the dreaded dispenser in the hallway. The coffee tasted like someone had washed their socks in it. He took a sip and grimaced. When he got back Milo was waving a preliminary forensics report confirming Marsha Thwaite as the female victim.

  ‘Okay, so now we need to ask what she was doing out there that time of night.’

  ‘The obvious?’ Kelly suggested. ‘Meeting her gentleman friend?’

  ‘Have we identified him yet?’

  Milo spoke without taking his eyes from the screens in front of him.

  ‘Tei Hideo. He was carrying a French identity card. Japanese origin, French citizen. Resident in this country for three years.’ Milo handed over a mauve Post-it. Milo Kowalski had his own system for everything. Drake had never seen anyone so organized.

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  Milo swung round in his chair eagerly. ‘This guy is a real character. He made a name for himself back in the eighties as a mountaineer. He climbed all the big Himalayan peaks, solo. That’s impressive. All for charity. He’s also into birds, the feathered kind. If you ask me, he’s trying to save the planet single-handedly.’

  ‘What about family, have you spoken to anyone?’

  ‘There’s a daughter here in London. Works in Regent’s Park.’

  Drake turned to Kelly. ‘We should speak to her today.’

  ‘I’ll set it up.’ Kelly reached for her phone.

  ‘Seems like an odd mix. Was he thinking of buying a flat?’

  ‘An art collector?’ Kelly speculated.

  ‘Possible. We need to build up a picture of these two. Did they know each other? How did they meet? Generally and specifically, on that evening. Why were they killed together? Were they chosen at random, or is there some kind of meaning to this?’

  The phone on the desk rang. It was Wheeler.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘My office, asap.’

  ‘On my way, sir.’ Drake caught Kelly’s eye.

  ‘Big chief?’

  ‘Sounds like he’s onto something.’

  ‘Never a good sign,’ muttered Kelly.

  ‘Did they get any prints off the car?’

  ‘Forensics have logged dozens of prints. They’re looking for matches now,’ said Kelly.

  ‘Milo, we need to run the CCTV footage to see how the truck arrived at the site. Maybe we’ll get lucky.’

  ‘I’m already on it, chief,’ Milo called.

  ‘Course you are.’

  Drake took the stairs slowly, wondering what idea Wheeler had got into his head now. Generally speaking, such initiatives never boded well. The best response was to listen patiently, nod appreciatively, promise to do some digging and then go away and let time take care of the rest. Wheeler saw himself as a creative person, a man with a ready solution to everything. Drake suspected the superintendent had missed certain opportunities available to him. Wheeler saw himself as an agent of change in a system that thrived on hierarchy and chain of command. Most of the ideas he came up with were unworkable. It was just a matter of waiting until he saw what was plain to everyone else. As he walked into the office, Drake had no idea what awaited him, but he was pretty sure that whatever it was he wasn’t going to like it.

  ‘Come in, Cal, pull up a chair.’ Wheeler was wearing the cheesy smile of a game-show host. The reason for the smile was standing over by the window. ‘This is Doctor Crane.’

  It wasn’t hard to see why a woman like that would put a smile on his face. She was around Drake’s height, her skin a shade lighter. She had narrow, almond-shaped green eyes and jet-black hair. The thick hair and high cheekbones suggested some Persian heritage, a parent from Iran. She carried herself with the loose confidence of someone who worked out regularly. Her handshake was firm. She was dressed in a charcoal business suit, and there was a flash of silver from a bracelet around her wrist as she took his hand, a wink of what might have been a diamond in one ear. Classy, yet understated. Somebody who had learned that good looks could draw the wrong kind of attention, especially if you were trying to get them to take you seriously.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Drake has taken charge of the investigation.’ Wheeler was still beaming like a sickly schoolboy trying to impress.

  ‘What’s this all about, sir?’

  ‘Our conversation with Howard Thwaite set me thinking. Perhaps we should try something a little more creative?’

  ‘I see.’ Drake glanced in the direction of Doctor Crane. So far she hadn’t said a word.

  ‘No need to look so glum, Cal. It was your idea, after all.’

  ‘My idea?’

  ‘Rituals. Medieval. That’s what you said. Instincts. Always go with your instincts.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘As it happens, Doctor Crane has been brought on board by the Serious Crimes mob.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  ‘Doctor Crane is a forensic psychologist. Highly qualified, it goes without saying. Done work for the MoD abroad. She recently took over from Juli
us Rosen.’

  ‘I remember Doctor Rosen,’ said Drake.

  ‘Exactly, we all do. So, Doctor Crane has being seconded to us in an advisory capacity.’ Drake had a feeling he knew what was coming. ‘And I’ve asked her to join the investigation.’

  ‘I see.’

  There was an awkward pause. Wheeler sensed that he had overstepped the mark. Crane, for her part, looked equally ill at ease. ‘It’s a high-profile case, Cal, and we need to bring all our guns to bear.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good man. I suggest that you fill Doctor Crane in on the details. Where are you?’

  ‘I was just about to head out to interview a couple of relatives. The daughter of the male victim and Mrs Thwaite’s gallery assistant.’

  ‘Perfect, you can take Doctor Crane with you.’

  ‘Sir . . .’

  Wheeler didn’t seem to hear. A beaming smile filled his face.

  ‘You’ll be in safe hands, Doctor Crane. Cal is one of the finest detectives we have.’

  CHAPTER 7

  They walked in almost complete silence out of the building as Drake led the way round the corner to an old bus-station waiting room that had been recently converted into some kind of hipster café. The Java Junction wasn’t his kind of place, but he was guessing it was probably more to Doctor Crane’s taste than the greasy spoon he tended to frequent.

  The bare brick was brightened by weird light sculptures and the floor was polished hardwood. It was almost deserted at that hour, which was handy. They sat in the far corner by a rusty iron table.

  ‘So what do I call you, Doctor Crane?’

  ‘Ray. People call me Ray.’

  ‘Ray?’

  ‘As in Rayhana.’

  The waitress appeared. Drake ordered black coffee. Doctor Crane, Ray, asked for the same.

  ‘Just to be clear, I think Superintendent Wheeler has managed to get a little ahead of himself.’

  ‘I got the impression you weren’t thrilled with the idea,’ she nodded.

  ‘It’s nothing personal, but we have to move quickly on this one and I really don’t have time to act as a chaperone.’