The guard who was fending off the flying fists of Ann Doherty gained the upper hand. He seized her wrist as it came close to his face and twisted the girl’s arm back, making her scream. I made to run forward and help her, but Sebastian held me back with a strong grip. I looked him in the eyes, feeling myself burning up with rage, but his expression was every bit as fierce. It gave me pause.
The guard who had the boy in an arm-lock suddenly shoved him back into the mud. ‘Come on,’ he snarled to his partner. ‘The little shit’s not worth it.’ He kicked the boy in the stomach. The other guard slammed his fist into Ann’s face and she fell back, tripping over the boy and landing heavily in a dark, muddy puddle. ‘Keep the pox-ridden bastard quiet in future,’ the first guard spat, and they strutted off.
I dashed over to them and helped Ann to her feet as the boy picked himself up.
‘What is happening?’ I asked. ‘Why were those men here?’
Ann was covered with mud and filth, and a stream of blood ran from her mouth, but she was undaunted. Her eyes were ablaze with frustration and fury. She yanked her arm out of my grip and spun around.
I stopped her, pulling her back to face me. ‘What is this all about?’
Tears were welling up in her eyes. ‘They were coming for Anthony,’ she said, between strangled sobs. ‘I would die before I let him go.’
Stepney, Tuesday 7 June, 12.30 p.m.
DCI Jack Pendragon was studying the screen of his computer and gingerly tapping at the keyboard. ‘Damn it! Bloody thing’s frozen again,’ he hissed.
Jez Turner came round the desk. ‘You’re trying to save this document, yeah?’
‘Trying being the operative word.’
Turner’s fingers glided over the keys. ‘There,’ he said. ‘It’s like a woman … needs a gentle touch.’
‘Oh, right, and you would know?’
The sergeant gave Pendragon a wry smile. ‘I’ve got some info on Middleton that could prove interesting.’
‘Oh?’
‘I thought the first thing to check out would be the guy’s finances. I hit the usual problem with the bank of course, but a couple of calls and I accessed his account. Or rather, accounts … at least a dozen of them.’
‘A dozen!’
Turner took a sheaf of papers from a file and handed them across the desk. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary at first glance. Quite small sums in each, just regular throughput – salary and outgoings, mortgage, car leasing bills. But then I noticed a pattern.’
Pendragon laid the papers out on the desk and glanced from one to the other. ‘Yes … similar amounts each month from different accounts, about a grand a time.’
‘And the money is distributed randomly from six of Middleton’s to at least three second-party accounts. I thought it might be something legit at first.’
‘No, if these were big regular outgoings, like mortgage repayments, they’d go to one account, maybe two. This has to be a private arrangement, designed to go unnoticed. Anything else?’
‘Well, yeah, actually. I got on to Central Records, and our Mr Middleton has form.’
Pendragon raised his eyebrow.
‘Served time in Scotland – kiddie porn and sexual assault of a minor.’
Pendragon’s face was expressionless. ‘A gift for a blackmailer.’
‘Yep, and enough to wreck a relationship if the truth had come out.’
‘You had a feeling Sophie Templer was hiding something.’
Pendragon stood up and paced about in front of his desk. ‘Rob Grant made the point that the staff of Rainer and Partner didn’t seem to have much of a liking for Middleton. He wasn’t exactly Mr Charisma, true, but maybe they’d heard something from a little birdie.’
Turner shrugged. ‘Yeah, his past could be our motive, but it doesn’t help much when it comes to who did it … could have been anyone.’
‘Agreed, but it’s a start. I think it’s time we popped in to see Max Rainer. Maybe he can shed some light on Tim Middleton’s murky past. After all, he is a family friend.’
They left Pendragon’s office and were walking along the corridor to the main exit when Superintendent Hughes stuck her head around her office door. ‘Jack, a word?’
‘See you in the car,’ Turner said, and walked on.
Pendragon knew something was up when Jill Hughes did not offer him a seat. She returned to her desk and stood leaning forward on her fists. It was then that Pendragon noticed the newspaper laid out in front of her.
‘I take it you haven’t seen this?’ the Super said, and almost threw the paper at him.
He felt the blood drain from his face. It was the local rag, the Gazette. Above a picture of him looking angrily into the lens, the headline screamed: LEFT … FOR ANOTHER WOMAN. Below this the piece began: ‘Detective Chief Inspector Jack Pendragon, who arrived at Brick Lane Police Station only a few days ago, has so many skeletons in his closet he should join a travelling fun fair managing the Ghost Train. Recently booted out of Thames Valley Police, the former Oxford cop has also been given the boot by his wife of fifteen years. Jean Pendragon walked out on him last January, and is now living with her lover, Kidlington headmistress Sarah Milligan. The happy couple were unavailable for comment, but sources close to the Pendragons have described how their marriage first hit the rocks five years ago when their nine-year-old daughter Amanda disappeared on her way to school in the Headington district of Oxford. The girl was never found. According to records …’
He lowered the paper and looked directly at the Super. ‘This is outrageous,’ he began. ‘How dare they?’
Jill Hughes was barely controlling her own anger. ‘Jack, you’re missing the point.’
‘And that is?’
‘Are you serious? The point is, Detective Chief Inspector, the knives are out. What the hell have you done to upset the press?’
‘I haven’t …’ Then he remembered the encounter on the stairs outside the station. ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’
‘What?’
‘I had a run in with some journalists yesterday.’
‘A run in?’ The superintendent raised an eyebrow. She was seated now, her arms on the desk, fingers interlocked in front of her.
‘I had cameras and recorders thrust in my face as I left the building. Perhaps I wasn’t as polite as I should have been.’
‘Obviously!’
‘But this is ridiculous. What they’ve written is slander. I wasn’t booted out …’
‘I don’t care about that, Jack. I don’t care one bit about that. All I care about is not winding up the local media. They’re allies, DCI Pendragon.’
He gave her a quizzical look. ‘Allies? In Oxford, we …’
‘I don’t care about that either,’ she interrupted, her voice raised several decibels. ‘This isn’t Oxford. Here, you work by my rules, and it is my wish that we keep the press on message, understand?’
Jack did not reply.
‘Do you understand, DCI Pendragon?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said. ‘How did they know about Jean?’
She sighed and shook her head. ‘I find it hard to believe anyone here would have blabbed.’
‘What do you mean? How did anyone here know?’
‘Jack.’ Her expression softened a little. ‘Nothing like that stays secret for long.’
‘No, obviously,’ he replied through gritted teeth. ‘And it was so nice of them to raise the issue of my daughter.’
‘Yes, that was below the belt.’
‘Never mind though, eh? Have to be nice to the press.’
Superintendent Hughes looked down at her clenched hands. Pendragon noticed her fingertips had whitened. When she looked up her expression was carefully blank. ‘I would like you to brief the press,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave it up to you to organise the conference, but I want it done today.’
He tossed the newspaper back on to her desk and walked out.
An old lady was being helped out through the main doors by a unifo
rmed officer as Pendragon headed towards the exit. He had just reached the door himself when the duty sergeant called after him. ‘Sir?’
Pendragon stopped and took a deep breath before glancing over his shoulder. ‘Sergeant.’
‘Sorry to bother you, Chief Inspector. That old lady,’ he nodded after her, ‘reported her dog missing. A spaniel.’
Pendragon gave him an incredulous look. Sergeant Scratton caught it and went on. ‘Nah, right. I wouldn’t have usually … it’s just … she’s the third this week.’
The DCI rested an elbow on the counter and held the bridge of his nose. He suddenly felt incredibly weary. ‘Okay, Sergeant. I’ve got to dash. Pass the details on to Inspector Towers, yes?’
Pendragon emerged into the afternoon sunshine. He could see Turner sitting in the nearest car in the lot. The air was sticky again and it was hard to ignore the smell of drains. ‘So now we’ve got a phantom dog-snatcher,’ Pendragon said under his breath. ‘I think this weather is getting to everyone.’
It was a ten-minute drive to the recently renovated 1920s block on Turnmill Street in the Barbican where Max Rainer had a flat on the fourth floor. A white-walled entrance lobby lined with lush palms in black granite pots led to an original sliding-gate lift with a set of stone stairs beside it. The lift opened on to a wide corridor. The blank canvas of the walls was broken by two huge sepia photographs of the original building under construction, flat-capped labourers carrying loaded hods and pushing barrows. There were four apartments on each floor. Rainer’s was number 402.
He was on the phone, laughing, when he opened the door a few inches. His face dropped when he saw the policemen. Winding up the call quickly, he clicked off the phone. ‘Chief Inspector …’
‘Pendragon.’
‘Of course. To what do I owe this honour?’ Rainer glanced at the DCI then ran his eyes up and down Turner.
‘We were just passing. Wondered if you had ten minutes to spare.’
‘Well …’
‘Excellent.’ Pendragon moved forward and Rainer could do nothing but open the door wide and allow the two men into his apartment.
It was furnished expensively. A Le Corbusier chaise stood next to large triple windows. There were antique black velvet curtains, a rosewood floor, glass shelves holding a few exquisite and exotic articles, a worn chesterfield, an Art Deco standard lamp. Rainer offered them seats. Turner sat on the other end of the chesterfield from him. Pendragon walked around slowly.
‘Unfortunately, I have an appointment in twenty minutes, Chief Inspector,’ Rainer said. ‘As you can appreciate, Tim’s death has come as a shock to us. As a result, I have a great many business and personal matters to attend to. I would like to offer you every assistance with your inquiries, naturally, so perhaps we should forego the niceties of tea and biscuits.’ Rainer’s usually careworn face looked more lined than usual. His brown eyes were dark-ringed and a little bloodshot. From the records, Pendragon and Turner knew he had turned fifty-six that year. Today he looked older.
Pendragon waved his hand. ‘Quite understand, Mr Rainer. But I thought you would be keen to help us find Tim Middleton’s murderer.’
‘Murderer? Is that official?’
‘Yes.’
‘How may I help?’ Rainer replied earnestly.
‘How close were you to Tim Middleton?’
Rainer looked a little surprised by the question. ‘I valued his input … respected him. I’ve known him a long time, but I wouldn’t have said we were close.’
‘There were family connections, though. Isn’t that right?’
‘I was at Cambridge with Tim’s father, Greg. We rowed together. I was best man at the Middletons’ wedding in 1976.’
‘And you took on Tim as a favour to his family?’ Pendragon probed.
‘Not at all,’ Rainer replied. ‘Tim is … was … a very, very good architect. He worked for a highly reputable firm for several years before joining us.’
Pendragon appeared to ignore this. Silence fell in the room as he scrutinised the objects on the glass shelves. At length he said, ‘And what about Mr Middleton’s criminal record?’
Rainer looked suitably surprised.
‘Oh, come now, Mr Rainer,’ Pendragon said, standing in front of the chesterfield. He glanced at Jez Turner. ‘Sergeant, perhaps you could jog Mr Rainer’s memory.’
Turner scanned his notebook. ‘On the sixth of June 1997 Mr Tim Middleton was arrested in Edinburgh. On the eighteenth of October 1997 he was sentenced to six years on two charges of Sexual Activity with a Child and three charges of Owning and Distributing Child Pornography. Released early for good behaviour on the twelfth of March 2001.’
Rainer ran a hand through his sparse black hair. ‘Fine. Yes, Tim had offended. Someone at Meadhams – the firm of architects he worked for in Harrow – found out about his past. He was “let go of” as they say. Tim’s father, Greg, was terminally ill by then … liver cancer. He died soon after. I can’t say I felt comfortable with Tim’s … proclivities, but he was a fine architect. Believe me, if I’d ever suspected he had reoffended, I would have …’
‘That’s not what this is about, Mr Rainer.’
‘No, no, of course. But you obviously think it’s linked to his death.’
‘It’s too early to say, but we have to explore all avenues. Do you know anything about Mr Middleton’s private life?’ Pendragon pulled up a chair, placing his elbows on his knees and interlocking his fingers.
‘Well, no, we were simply work colleagues. I had almost no social contact with Tim.’
‘Do you know who his friends were?’
‘No.’
‘Did you get the feeling he was mixing in bad company? Was he in any kind of trouble?’
Rainer stood up and began to pace. ‘As I said, Chief Inspector, I had almost no contact with Tim outside the office. He was a big boy. I wasn’t his guardian.’
‘No. Tell me, do you think anyone else in the company knew about Mr Middleton’s past?’
Rainer straightened. ‘I would bloody well hope not! I certainly didn’t say a word. What makes you think that?’
Pendragon let the question pass. ‘And your firm is doing well?’
‘Yes, we have a very healthy project list. Why?’
‘Including the development at Frimley Way?’
‘Yes. And, of course, I have heard about the death of the builder there. Most unfortunate.’
‘Was that project one of Tim Middleton’s?’ Turner asked.
Rainer turned from Pendragon to the sergeant. ‘It doesn’t work like that. We operate as a team on all projects.’
‘But with a project leader of some sort?’
Rainer conceded the point.
‘And Frimley Way was one of Middleton’s?’ Turner pushed.
‘He was the project manager for it, yes. Your point being?’
Turner met Rainer’s eyes. ‘Just trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together, sir. Part of my job description.’
‘Fine, Sergeant,’ Rainer replied stonily. ‘Then perhaps you’ll excuse me? I also have a job description. It includes client liaison.’ He glanced at his watch and across at Pendragon. ‘Chief Inspector, I’m afraid I have an appointment.’
‘What’s with his attitude?’ Turner said as they descended in the lift.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t read too much into it, Sergeant. Rainer strikes me as the highly strung sort. Besides, grief affects people in different ways.’
Reaching Brick Lane, Turner pulled into the car park and spotted the group of journalists waiting on the steps of the station before Pendragon did. ‘Here we go,’ he said.
Pendragon stepped from the passenger side and walked purposefully towards the steps. Ignoring the tape recorders, he pushed his way through the throng. Reaching the top of the stairs, he turned to look at the press pack. ‘I would like to give you an update,’ he announced, and gazed down at the gathered reporters and photographers. Cameras clicked away and a couple of the journa
lists checked their digital recorders were running. Pendragon spotted Fred Taylor towards the back of the group and fixed him with a hard stare.
‘There have been two recent deaths associated with Bridgeport Construction’s site at Frimley Way,’ he began. ‘A labourer named Amal Karim was beaten to death early on Saturday morning. He had been a night watchman at the site. His body was found on the dance-floor of a nearby club. Our forensics team have ascertained the attack occurred on the roof of the club and the man’s body was shoved into a ventilation shaft that came out above the dance-floor.
‘The second death was that of an architect from the firm of Rainer and Partner. The dead man is Tim Middleton, the “Partner” of the firm and one of the architects in charge of the development at Frimley Way. Mr Middleton died on Sunday at a local restaurant. The cause of death is presently unknown, but police pathologists are working to elucidate one. At this time, we have no evidence to link these two deaths, or indeed to say for sure whether or not Mr Middleton was murdered.’ Pendragon paused for a moment and surveyed the faces in front of him.
‘And the body unearthed at the site, DCI Pendragon? What can you tell us about that?’ It was Fred Taylor.
Pendragon took a deep breath, buying himself time to gather his thoughts. ‘I think there’s been some misunderstanding, Mr Taylor,’ he retorted. ‘There is no body.’
‘My sources tell me otherwise.’
‘Ah, your sources. Yes. Well, I’m afraid your sources are misleading you. During the course of their examination of the murder scene, our forensics team unearthed a human bone, a metatarsal from the right hand. Would you like me to spell metatarsal for you, Mr Taylor?’
A couple of the newsmen laughed.
‘A human bone?’ one of the journalists asked.
‘Yes. However, the bone is extremely old.’
‘But from another murder victim … and at the same location,’ Taylor insisted.
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