Cut to the Bone

by Alex Caan

  ‘Used some pals of mine. They logged into the city-wide grid for me, did a facial recognition search,’ said Anderson.

  ‘How did you know where to look?’

  ‘I keep tabs on all our clients. I knew exactly where to look.’

  Jed wondered if a tab was being kept on him, too. ‘Have you covered our tracks?’ he said.

  ‘Completely,’ said Anderson.

  ‘I need you to be sure. I can’t let this go public until there’s not even a hint of our involvement.’

  Jed looked at his head of security, trying to find a flicker of doubt. There wasn’t one. Anderson was ex-SAS, a security veteran. When had he gone bad, wondered Jed. There must have been a turning point when he lost his way. What was it? Too much death, a love story, or just good old-fashioned greed? Jed didn’t have much time for people like Anderson, but his father had insisted. If he was going to fund MINDNET, then he wanted one of his own men on the inside.

  That raised the question of trust. How much could he trust this man, his father’s man? Was he reporting back, divulging Jed’s failures? That couldn’t be the case; Jed would have surely felt the fallout by now.

  ‘I don’t make idle promises, and I don’t do half measures,’ said Anderson, his accent strong when he was trying to be sincere. ‘When I say we’re safe, we’re safe.’

  Jed liked the ‘we’ in that sentence. Anderson was aware that his own balls were in the shredder if things went badly for them. How to keep men like Anderson close, and loyal: dirty their hands as much as your own.

  Jed wiped his fingers over his face, feeling two days’ sweat and oil on his skin. For forty-eight hours, he had been too wired, nervous, scared. Hadn’t wanted to eat or shower. He went through bouts of sitting and staring, imagining the worst, his nerves shot. Bile instead of saliva in his mouth. Then frenetic energy, pacing. His life strangling him, making him claustrophobic.

  Was Anderson finally giving him the space to breathe?

  ‘Then let’s do this, let’s see how it plays out.’

  ‘We could do very well out of this,’ said Anderson.

  ‘Yes, I can see that. The timing has to be right, though.’

  ‘I would suggest we don’t send it directly,’ said Anderson. ‘That detective, she’s too unfazed, too sure of herself. She’ll be here asking questions immediately.’

  ‘I don’t get it. You said you’ve removed all links to us?’ Jed hated the thought of Riley anywhere near him.

  ‘They found the contract,’ said Anderson.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Jed. ‘How?’

  ‘It was printed off, shredded in the girl’s bedroom.’

  ‘Paper. Fucking paper.’

  The sick, twisted feeling was coming back. The pressure was tight in his chest, in his head. How could that have happened?

  ‘Relax, sir. We’ll deal with it.’

  Jed pulled a bottle of whisky from his desk. He needed another shot to calm him. He’d finished off a bottle the night before, trying to medicate himself to sleep. It only worked to help him pass out.

  ‘How do we get the video to Riley, then?’ he said, filling a tumbler on his desk.

  ‘Rourke,’ said Anderson. ‘That way, there’s nothing to link back to us.’

  Jed smiled. Yes, Karl Rourke. The desperate fool.

  Jed felt another muscle relax, the breathing come more easily. Rourke could deal with Riley; she was only a woman, after all. How good could she possibly be?

  Chapter Sixty-nine

  Kate was in the conference room with her team. Zain was wearing shades, to allegedly cover dark circles and tired eyes. Kate was fine with it, though; she wanted to avoid looking into them, seeing the night before reflected back at her.

  Where was her head? He was working for her. Why him? She couldn’t cross that line, not with a work colleague.

  The drive back to the London HQ had passed in silence, no music, just the news on Radio 5. Ruby was still headline-worthy, the search in Hampshire the lead item. So far, Kate had avoided the press. She didn’t want to appear on TV, or have her picture in the papers. She wanted to keep her cover.

  She wondered what she would look like to someone from her past. The blonde girl gone, a brunette woman in her stead.

  ‘I’ve seen stuff like this on CSI,’ said Rob Pelt. He was chewing a plastic spoon that he’d used earlier to stir Sweet’N Low into his decaf coffee. Out of all of them, he looked the most freshest. He seemed so unconcerned all the time. How did he switch off?

  ‘How do we pin it down? Show that he strapped her to the chair, led her into the woods?’ said Zain.

  ‘Do we have anything from Forensics?’ said Kate.

  ‘His partial prints are on the tape, the one used to strap Ruby to the chair. On the boat, they found fingerprints, and some hair,’ said Rob.

  ‘Circumstantial,’ said Zain. ‘He owns that place, and the boat. Everything would potentially have his prints on it.’

  ‘How did he restrain her with just tape?’ said Stevie.

  ‘It’s specialised, made from nanotechnology. Silica atoms, blasted to a millionth of an inch, then hammered back together. It would be like being restrained by steel.’

  They all turned to stare at Zain.

  ‘What?’ he said, noting their surprise. ‘They make it at UCL; they have a nanotechnology department. I was there on a case, once, learned a few things.’

  ‘How do you know it’s the same stuff?’ said Stevie.

  ‘Saw the roll on the kitchen table,’ said Zain.

  ‘We back up the forensic evidence with the text messages, the emails,’ said Kate. ‘His lack of an alibi is key. We have a strong case against him. Hope is keen for us to proceed. That means he’s cleared it with the lawyers.’

  ‘Over golf or pints at his club,’ muttered Stevie.

  ‘Don’t think they do pints in his club,’ said Rob.

  ‘Whatever,’ said Stevie.

  She skulked down into her jacket, her hands in the pockets. Her legs were stretched under the table, her boots tapping the floor as her legs bounced. She concentrated better by using up her excess energy that way.

  ‘What we need is the body,’ said Rob.

  ‘Plenty of people get convicted without a body,’ said Stevie.

  ‘When he gets nailed in court, and banged up, to become some guy’s bitch, that’s when I’ll celebrate,’ said Zain. ‘Because I’ve seen too many guilty bastards walk.’

  ‘Cynical freak,’ said Stevie.

  ‘What is your fucking problem?’ said Zain.

  ‘It’s speaking to me? I mean, what the hell, Harris. You think you’re in Heat magazine? What are the shades for?’

  ‘Get a grip,’ said Zain.

  ‘You guys are making me turn to religion,’ said Rob. ‘And drink.’

  ‘It’s true, though, come off it,’ said Zain. ‘Your case – remember the guy who arranged to help his brother-in-law kill his love rival? Got off with a crap excuse. That’s what happens. Fucking judges.’

  ‘That was harsh, took me ages to get over that,’ said Rob. ‘How did you know about that, anyway?’

  Zain froze.

  ‘I wonder what else he knows,’ said Stevie.

  ‘Whatever it is, I hope it’s related to this investigation,’ said Kate.

  She felt tired, suddenly. She had let them all start work late that morning. Zain had dropped her off at HQ, giving her enough time to head home, check in on her mother and Ryan. Both were in a mood but she couldn’t unpick why, and she didn’t have the time. Something had happened.

  ‘I have to go early today,’ Ryan had said.

  Kate agreed to be home by six-thirty.

  ‘And I need some time off,’ he had added.

  Kate had felt her world shift. What was going on? She would have to speak to her mother that evening. With no Ryan, she didn’t see how she could manage her life.

  There was a knock on the door. Lia told her Karl Rourke was in reception, needed to speak to her
urgently.

  Michelle played the footage Rourke had brought with him. He was nervous, a layer of sweat on his face. He was touching his hair a lot, smoothing it down, wiping at his nose.

  On the screen, they saw a man in a hoodie walking through a council estate.

  ‘Where is that?’ said Kate.

  ‘Carsdale,’ said Rourke.

  Carsdale estate was notorious, set over six blocks in Peckham. It was standard London council estate, solid bricks, white-framed windows.

  The man walked past parked cars, a group of young men huddled together.

  The camera angle changed, catching the man from the front, his face visible, even though his hair and chin were covered. The eyes. They were huge, distinctive.

  Kate sat down, her legs shaking.

  The man was next caught on camera inside D block. He looked at them for a second, an involuntary stare, but not one that meant he was aware of his image being captured. He was caught side on, pressing for the lift. It came, and he disappeared inside.

  The video spooled; it was a shot from inside the lift. It was looking down at the man, his face, the upturn of his nose, clearly seen. There was a timestamp on the CCTV at the bottom of the image, the seconds running along, the twenty-four-hour clock.

  The next shot was in front of the lift. The man walked past the camera, turned left, and was caught walking to a flat on floor six, according to a sign on the side of a pillar. He knocked, looked around, went inside.

  The picture cut again to the man leaving the flat, some hours later. He wasn’t walking in a straight line. In fact, Kate noticed, he wasn’t walking straight at all through any of the film. He looked as though he was dragging one of his legs behind him.

  ‘Why does he have that limp?’ she said.

  ‘He’s had it since childhood. An accident. Made him a target at school, suffered quite badly,’ said Rourke.

  Was there accusation behind those words?

  The last shot was of the man walking across the estate again. It was 9 a.m. According to the CCTV monitored by Lambeth Council, Dan Grant had spent the best part of the time Ruby disappeared at a flat on the Carsdale estate.

  ‘How did you get hold of this?’ said Kate.

  ‘Privileged sources,’ said Rourke.

  Kate looked at him, and then stared back at the frozen face of Dan. Her case unravelling.

  ‘If this is where he was, why didn’t he tell us? Why didn’t he give up his alibi?’ said Kate.

  Rourke couldn’t meet her gaze.

  ‘It’s fucking obvious,’ Zain said.

  Chapter Seventy

  The Carsdale estate was no less bleak in the daylight than it had appeared on the CCTV footage.

  They passed a group of young men dressed in estate uniform: hooded tops, baseball caps, low-slung jeans, expensive trainers. They might have been the same gathering from the other night, or the same gathering that was a staple of these places.

  Kate didn’t make eye contact for too long with any of them. They were a problem for another day.

  ‘This is why I parked outside Tesco’s,’ said Zain. ‘I have no problem handling myself, but my car isn’t going to be at risk from these dicks.’

  They entered D Block, Kate looking up at the cameras placed high on the wall, secured with more than just cable wires. They had solid steel reinforced cages around them, the lenses popping out.

  Inside she smelled what they couldn’t on the video footage. It was ingrained, familiar. Cigarette smoke, urine, beer, sweat, dirt, desperation and despair. More than anything else, poverty.

  The lift doors creaked open slowly, then shut just as sluggishly. It took off, shaking, feeling like a bronchial attack on a treadmill.

  ‘I bet no one comes if we press the alarm on breakdown,’ said Zain.

  The lift stopped, and the doors began their unhurried opening routine.

  They walked along the same corridor Dan had on the video they’d seen, stopped outside the door he had entered. It was red, with the number D63 on it in hopeful gold metal symbols.

  ‘Do we knock?’ said Zain.

  Kate rapped on the door. There was no answer. From inside, she could hear the thudding of loud music.

  Zain checked the front windows, banged his fists against them. Someone lifted dirty yellow netting. A face peered out, mouthing, ‘What the fuck?’

  Zain took out his badge, flattened it against the window. The face panicked, disappeared.

  ‘Is there a back way out?’ said Kate.

  ‘No, just a six-floor drop,’ he said.

  ‘And if you thought the cops were here and had something to hide?’

  ‘Ah, fuck this shit,’ said Zain, running back down the way they had come. He shouted back to Kate: ‘The idiot’s hanging out of the window, about to jump.’

  Kate walked quickly to where he stood. It was a balcony by the lifts, offering them a view of the back windows to the flats. She could see the man half out of his window, looking down, calculating the drop, looking back at her.

  ‘It’s at least a forty-five foot drop,’ she said. ‘You really want to risk it?’

  He turned black eyes towards her, spat out of the window. Calculating how long it would take to land on the grass?

  ‘We’re not here for you,’ she said. ‘We want to ask you some questions about Daniel Grant.’

  The face creased in anger.

  ‘We don’t have a warrant; we won’t be searching your apartment. We just need to talk.’

  The face was pensive, staring down at the grass. The man moved a fraction forward, building up courage. He glared at her, scanned his chances of survival. Spat again. Then disappeared back through the window.

  The flat stunk of grease, fish and curry. The front room was bigger than Zain’s, he thought bitterly. How did someone on benefits get a better place than him?

  ‘What’s your name?’ said Zain.

  He looked Somalian, or from some other part of North Africa. Dark skin, but delicate features.

  ‘Barry,’ he muttered.

  ‘Barry?’ said Zain. ‘Joker.’

  ‘Barry is just fine, for now,’ said Kate.

  Zain shrugged, inspected the room. It was furnished with a single couch, orange, and a unit where the TV, DVD player, satellite box, and various games consoles were kept. The room was muggy with sweat and the distinct smell that young men manufactured. He felt his skin crawl, perched himself on the arm of the sofa. Kate was sitting on it. Zain saw stains on the material, didn’t want to take the risk.

  Barry sat cross-legged on the floor. He was emaciated, his bony frame visible in joggers and T-shirt, both too big for him. Both emblazoned with ‘Moschino’.

  ‘Why you here?’ he said. ‘What you wanna know?’

  It was a south London accent, the ghetto version, but identifiable.

  ‘We need to speak to you about Daniel Grant,’ said Kate.

  ‘Yeah, I know him. He’s good people.’

  ‘We believe you might be able to provide us with some vital information about his whereabouts, the day before yesterday,’ said Kate.

  ‘Don’t know nuttin’ ’bout dat. Saw it on da net. Dan ain’t no killer.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ said Kate.

  ‘He got balls like a cockroach, tiny little coward balls. He don’t have it in him to be killin’ jack.’

  ‘You seen his balls?’ said Zain.

  ‘You got jokes? Naice,’ said Barry, spitting from the side of his mouth. Zain realised he had khat in his cheek, was chewing it while he spoke to them.

  ‘Barry, we have CCTV footage placing Mr Grant in your apartment from about 10 p.m. on Tuesday the tenth of November, until approximately 10 a.m. on the morning of Wednesday the eleventh of November.’

  Barry gaped at them, a blank expression on his face.

  ‘What were you doing for those twelve hours?’ said Kate.

  ‘Nuttin’, he wasn’t here,’ said Barry.

  ‘We saw him enter and leave. Unl
ess he jumped out the back, he didn’t leave your flat,’ said Zain. ‘So what were you doing? Checking out each other’s bollocks?’

  ‘You callin’ me a fag?’ said Barry, swearing at Zain in Arabic.

  ‘I prefer women to dogs,’ said Zain.

  Barry blinked wildly, his pillow of confidence removed.

  ‘I have to make assumptions,’ said Zain. ‘Unless you say what went on here.’

  Zain knew what was going on inside that tiny brain. He knew Dan had been here getting high, playing computer games. Barry was no supplier, though, just a user, a middleman. He was providing Dan with the drugs; someone else was Barry’s source.

  ‘We just chilled,’ said Barry.

  ‘Did you partake off any narcotics or stimulants?’ said Kate.

  ‘No drugs,’ said Barry. ‘I’m a good Muslim.’

  Zain felt the immediate spike of red mist and rage. He felt himself go into tunnel-vision mode, Barry at the end of that dangerous lens.

  ‘If you were both here relaxing, then why is Dan so reluctant to let us know?’ said Kate.

  Barry shrugged.

  ‘What did you talk about? What did you do, while together?’ said Kate.

  ‘This and dat. Played games, innit. Yeah, computer games, we played those,’ said Barry enthusiastically.

  ‘Again, why was Dan so reluctant to tell us this? There is nothing incriminating in anything you’ve told us,’ said Kate.

  Barry shrugged. ‘Got nuttin’ else to say to you,’ he said. ‘You know where da door is.’

  Zain felt the sensible side of him being pushed off a ledge. The other side took over. He knew it had happened. And he knew what was going to happen next would probably wreck his career. Still, he couldn’t stop.

  Chapter Seventy-one

  Kate only caught a blur of movement. Zain had jumped up from the arm of the sofa and grabbed Barry, pushing the frail figure against the wall. Suspending him five inches from the floor.

  Zain had his hands carefully arranged, she observed. He had scrunched up Barry’s top, used it as leverage. It would mean no finger marks on his neck – bruising possibly, but no marks. And no skin-to-skin contact.

  Harris was no raw recruit; she had to remember that. Two weeks in her team didn’t discount everything he had learned over the last few years.