Each short clip had the same basic shape. The subject sat in front of a white background, looking straight at camera, until a short bleep signalled that they were to look to their right. Five seconds later another bleep indicated that they should turn the other way. Finally, they turned back to the camera and stared at it until the clip ended. Then the next one began.
The expressions ranged from vacant to insolent. Though instructed to keep their faces as blank as possible, the subjects looked variously bored, fascinated or disgusted. Some looked contented, presumably because they’d just picked up eighty quid for a few minutes of their time, when they’d only popped into the station to produce valid car insurance or explain where their girlfriend had got her black eye and split lip. They were all between sixteen and twenty-one. All were blond, though the length of hair and its style varied, from flat-top to floppy. None of the young men wore earrings, the subject in the seventh clip having been instructed to remove a gold cross on account of the fact that it might be said to draw unfair attention to him.
When the montage had finished and the screen went blank, Wilmot asked the witness if he wanted to see the footage a second time.
The witness shook his head.
Wilmot then asked the important questions, as he had to, but Kitson didn’t need to hear the answers. The face of the witness had remained more expressionless than many on the video, but Kitson had heard the noise begin towards the end of the sequence.
At around the minute and a half mark.
It continued now as Wilmot tried to elicit a response: the banging of bone against metal as Nabeel Khan’s leg shook uncontrollably beneath the table.
‘It’s this business with the kids I don’t get,’ Porter said. ‘How could Jane Freestone have let her brother come near her kids?’
‘She may not have known back then. Not for sure, anyway.’
‘She knows now though, right? And she’s still happy enough to send them out to the park with Uncle Grant.’
‘Apparently.’
‘You stick by your family. I understand that. We’ve both seen people doing it, standing by relatives who’ve done some of the sickest fucking things. A lot of the time, however misguided they are, part of me even thinks that’s honourable, you know?’
Thorne knew. He’d watched people eaten away from the inside by what those closest to them had done, while refusing to turn away. Insisting, despite everything, on being the only ones not to.
‘But only up to a point, don’t you reckon?’
‘Children, you mean?’
‘Right. It’s got to be a different story when it comes to your kids. No matter how much you might love your brother or your father or your husband, you put the kids first and last, surely to God?’
‘Maybe she genuinely thinks he’s innocent,’ Thorne said.
Porter was not convinced. ‘I think Freestone’s open enough now about what he did, isn’t he? About what his preferences are. We’re talking about his nephews here; kids whose trust he’s already got, for heaven’s sake.’
‘I know…’
‘What if there were other kids?’ She said it like the ignorance was unforgivable. ‘We don’t know what he’s been doing for the last five years.’
‘Keeping his head down, I should think.’
‘It’s not his head I’m worried about.’ She paused before asking the question, as if Thorne’s answer was important to her. ‘Do you think people like Freestone can change what they are?’
‘Bloody hell,’ Thorne said. ‘Do we really need to get into this?’
‘We’re just talking.’
‘Like you said, it’s a preference, and whatever they might be, most of us are stuck with them.’ He hesitated, feeling awkward, searching for a way to articulate it. ‘I suppose… I’m not convinced that you could make me start fancying blokes, however much therapy you gave me.’
‘Right. And listen, I accept all the evidence about abusers having been abused themselves. It’s just-’
‘I know…’
‘I’ve been putting myself in her shoes, in Jane’s shoes, and I couldn’t do it. It’s hypothetical, obviously, but I think I would have had to cut myself off from him. Me and the kids. I mean, Jesus, if you’ve got some of your own, you know what the parents of the kids he hurt have gone through, don’t you? You’ve got that to live with as well.’
‘I suppose so,’ Thorne said.
She shook her head. Disgusted, adamant. ‘I wouldn’t have wanted him to come out of prison.’
They were sitting in one of the large CID offices on the third floor. Cut off from their own incident room back at Becke House, this was about the only place they could talk with any degree of privacy; to discuss progress, or the lack of it. To take a few minutes.
But they were still interrupted. Officers from various station squads moved in and out of the room at regular intervals, and the conversation was friendly enough. This was unusual, as ordinarily there was resentment between those who worked at Colindale full time and those, like Porter and Thorne, who were using it as little more than a facilities house. It was petty, territorial stuff: our interview room, our custody suite, our tea and biscuits. But, thus far, there had been only genuine enquiries as to how things were going, and both Thorne and Porter had been wished good luck on numerous occasions.
Word went round a station when there was a major case on the premises. It changed the mood of the place.
It was clear from many of the comments, passed openly or whispered too loudly in corners, that Grant Freestone’s record – the crimes for which he had been convicted in the mid-nineties – was colouring opinion; preying on the minds of others just as much as it was on Louise Porter’s. This certainly explained all those messages of good luck…
Thorne drank his tea and watched Porter work her way through a can of Diet Coke and her second packet of crisps. On the far wall, a large whiteboard was covered in names, pictures and numbered bullet points. Lines and arrows, up and across in red marker pen, linked a face to a blown-up section of the A-Z, a registration number to the photograph of a woman who had been severely beaten. Porter stared at the familiar map of an enquiry; the blood and beating heart of a case they knew nothing about. But Thorne knew that her mind was racing; was full of doubts and questions about their own case. Its fluttering, irregular heartbeat.
‘Are we so sure this is the right thing?’ Porter asked. ‘We could just play safe and do what he’s asking. Would getting Mullen in here do any harm?’
‘It’s not about playing safe. It’s about refusing to be dictated to by a suspect, unless you’re certain there are no other options.’
‘So it’s about who’s in charge, is it?’
‘I don’t want Mullen in here.’
‘I’m thinking about Luke.’
‘So am I.’ Thorne tried to sound thoughtful as opposed to plain sullen, but he wasn’t certain he’d pulled it off.
‘Well, then, can we afford not to do what Freestone’s asking?’
‘Demanding.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘He’s pissing us around.’
‘Well, hopefully we’ll know soon enough.’
‘Why is he insisting that he has to talk to Mullen in private anyway? Why all the secrecy?’
‘Look, I don’t trust him any more than you do, but-’
‘I don’t trust either of them,’ Thorne said.
Porter rolled her eyes, but she obviously agreed, to some extent at least.
Thorne watched her lift up the packet, tip her head back and pour the remaining crisps into her mouth. Still chewing, she nodded towards the door and Thorne looked round to see Brigstocke and Hignett hovering, like funeral directors come to collect a body.
‘Shall we get this done?’ Brigstocke said.
The four of them took the stairs down to the ground floor, Porter and Hignett a few steps ahead of the two men from the Murder Squad. Thorne thought Brigstocke looked tired, guessed the DCI was probab
ly getting even less sleep than he was.
As they stepped on to a small landing, with the other pair now a full flight below them, Brigstocke turned to Thorne. ‘Any thoughts on how you and Porter are going to run this?’
‘We thought we’d try to play it by ear,’ Thorne said.
A few steps on, Brigstocke shook his head, mumbled, ‘God help us…’
On the way to the custody suite, they met Yvonne Kitson coming from another direction. Thorne let the others go ahead.
‘Crowded in here today,’ he said. ‘I heard you brought your schoolboy in.’
Kitson grinned. ‘Sounds like you’re not doing too badly yourself.’
‘When either of us gets five minutes, we should drink to something.’
‘All being well.’
‘Have you had a chat with Farrell yet?’
‘Just on my way,’ Kitson said. ‘Got him in the bin.’ She brandished a sheaf of papers; passed them across for Thorne to take a look at.
Thorne studied the disclosure paperwork: a series of documents to be handed to the suspect’s legal adviser; all at once, or strategically drip-fed if it was deemed to be useful. By law, the papers had to include everything from completed custody records to copies of the ‘first description’ – in this case the statement given by Nabeel Khan at the murder scene and reproduced verbatim from the attending officer’s pocketbook. Thorne flicked through copies of the incriminating E-fit and Farrell’s arrest log, then pointed to a sheet outlining the results of the video ID parade. ‘This should do you nicely,’ he said.
‘It wasn’t very easy for the witness.’ Kitson blinked away the memory of something, but managed to crank up the smile again. ‘Should put the wind up his smartarse solicitor, though.’
‘One of those, is it?’
‘You know the firm: Smartarse, Posh and Fullovit.’
‘I know them too bloody well…’
They moved on together, laughing, towards the interview rooms; through the door that separated the rest of the prison from the custody suite.
‘Suite’ was something of a misnomer, suggesting that the area was rather more comfortable and well appointed than it was. In fact, this was where industrial grey carpet gave way to concrete floors, where panic strips ran along the walls, and where an atmosphere of heightened awareness came close to one charged with aggression.
This was where the station became a prison.
A pair of custody sergeants, or ‘skippers’, sat on a raised platform at the centre, booking people in, working at computer screens and monitoring the CCTV images fed from cells and corridors. The ‘cage’ was off to one side, through which prisoners were brought in from the backyard, and where, if necessary, UV light would show up any property-marked items that they might be carrying. Corridors in two directions led to the twenty-seven cells which ringed the suite. Each was tiled from floor to high ceiling, with a metal toilet on one side and a blue plastic mattress along the back wall. A double doorway led through to an exercise yard, to which prisoners were taken if they needed air; or, more likely, nicotine.
Kitson slowed down outside the tiny kitchen, where the jailer on shift could make tea and coffee or prepare one of five different microwaveable meals for prisoners. She lowered her voice. ‘I’ve got DNA as well, Tom.’
It took Thorne a couple of seconds. ‘When did you arrest him?’
‘I acquired a sample beforehand, got it to the lab yesterday afternoon.’
‘Right…’ He drew the word out, still thinking.
‘It’s only a preliminary result, obviously. Ninety-something per cent match so far. It doesn’t eliminate him, which is what counts.’
‘Twenty-four hours is still going some, though.’
Kitson reddened. ‘Somebody at FSS likes me. Owed me a favour.’
‘You flirted with him. I’m appalled.’
‘With her…’
‘You’re fucking shameless,’ Thorne said. He flicked quickly through the disclosure papers again. ‘I can’t see it anywhere in here.’
‘Like I said, it’s just a prelim. We’ve got two more runs before it’s definitive.’
‘You can still put it in here, though. Then you’ll really put the shits up Farrell’s brief.’ Thorne looked up, saw that the colour in Kitson’s face had deepened, and that it wasn’t through embarrassment. ‘When you say acquired?’
Kitson told him about the previous afternoon. She described her meeting with Adrian Farrell by the bus stop, the boy’s reaction to her questions, and the way she’d scraped his spit off the pavement. Thorne stared, astonished and full of admiration. Then, much as he hated to be the one to do it, he pointed out that none of her forensic evidence would stand up anywhere.
‘I’ve got a witness,’ Kitson said, and she told Thorne about the woman in the tracksuit who’d seen Farrell spitting on the pavement. The woman who’d been kind enough to provide Kitson with a cotton bud and a plastic freezer bag when she’d needed them.
‘Even so-’
‘OK, look, I know I can’t use it, and I took a kosher sample as soon as we booked him in, but I just wanted to be sure. D’you understand?’
Thorne handed back the documents. ‘Probably right to leave the DNA stuff out then,’ he said. ‘For the time being.’
‘Yeah.’ She tapped a fingertip against the side of her head and grinned. ‘But it’s nice to know, isn’t it?’
‘Oh fuck, yes,’ Thorne said. ‘Every time.’
They walked round the corner to the interview room – the ‘bin’ – where Farrell was waiting. Thorne took a quick look through the small window.
Kitson nodded across to another room on the far side. ‘You think you’ve got your man in there? For the kidnap, I mean.’
Thorne considered the question. ‘I’m really not sure about anything,’ he said. ‘Right now, if you asked me what my name was, I’d only be able to give you a preliminary result.’
SIXTEEN
‘This room is different,’ Freestone said.
Thorne nodded, as though he were impressed. ‘Can’t fool you for a second, can we, Grant?’ He pointed to a red light on the far wall, informed Freestone that whenever it was lit the interview was being viewed remotely by other officers. ‘You’re very popular,’ he said. ‘Lots of people are keen to say hello, but we don’t want to start cramming them into a small room like this, do we?’
Donovan was obviously eager to make his presence felt early. He leaned towards his client. ‘And they don’t want me claiming that you were intimidated by a gang of hulking great coppers.’
‘Can’t fool you, either,’ Thorne said. He looked at Freestone for a second or two without speaking. ‘Not that you look as though you’d be easily intimidated.’
‘You can’t afford to be, can you?’ Freestone said.
Thorne understood perfectly well. He knew that Freestone had spent a long time on the receiving end of far harsher intimidation than anything he could dish out. ‘You certainly can’t,’ he agreed.
Porter had been staring hard at Freestone across the table. ‘You don’t look too good,’ she said. Then, to Donovan: ‘Are you sure your client’s well enough?’
Thorne glanced up at the camera through which he knew Hignett and Brigstocke were watching. He guessed they’d have approved of the question. Porter was right to allow for any eventuality at this stage.
‘No, as it goes, he’s far from well,’ Donovan said.
Freestone began to nod quickly. ‘I just need a bit of something. I’ll be fine.’
It was obvious to all concerned what Freestone needed. Thorne did not know how serious the habit was, whether he was doing coke, heroin or both, but at best it would have been seven or eight hours since he’d taken anything. If the turkey wasn’t yet cold, it was already tepid. ‘We’ll be as quick as we can, then we’ll get a doctor in to sort you out. It’s really up to you how soon that’ll be.’
‘This is the fourth interview with my client in as many hours,’ Donovan s
aid. ‘And I still haven’t seen much to justify a single one of them.’
‘You were obviously asleep when he threatened a child’s life.’
‘He threatened no such thing-’
‘When he confessed to holding a child against his will, then. That do you?’
Freestone, who didn’t appear to be listening, pointed at the glowing red light. ‘People are watching this, correct?’
‘Correct,’ Thorne said.
‘Well, we can’t meet in here, then. When Mullen comes in.’
‘I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves.’
‘When’s he coming? Is he on his way yet?’
‘You have to talk to us first,’ Porter said.
Thorne was shaking his head. ‘There are no guarantees here.’ He leaned his head close to Porter’s. ‘We’re making no promises at all. We need to be agreed on that. Yes?’
Porter’s expression made it clear that she understood. She turned slowly from Thorne to Freestone. ‘We need assurances,’ she said.
Freestone nodded again, like it was a reasonable request. One that he’d be happy to meet.
‘We need to know about Luke.’
‘What about him?’
‘Christ!’ Thorne said. ‘Take a guess.’ He raised his hands in apology at the sharp look from Porter.
‘He’s fine,’ Freestone said.
‘What about all that stuff you came out with before?’ Porter’s voice was low, not much above a whisper. ‘You made it very clear that if we didn’t find him quickly…’
‘I was talking about a long time: months, whatever.’
‘Is he somewhere with plenty of air?’
‘What? I don’t-’
‘Does he have anything to eat? Is he tied up?’
‘He’s got food. I left him enough food.’
‘What kind of food?’
‘Burgers, that kind of thing. You know – stuff kids like.’
‘You know all about what kids like.’ Thorne leaned forward. ‘Don’t you, Grant?’
Freestone opened his mouth. Closed it again.
‘Hang on,’ Donovan said. ‘There’s never been any suggestion-’
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