by Dal Maclean
Now the officers who’d been at the scene with Will intermingled with the ones who’d just come in, and Will could see a surprising number of people who’d been at James’s party and should have still been in bed.
“All right,” Ingham called loudly from her seat at the front. ”Let’s pull it together.”
The hubbub stilled to the sound of a clicking ballpoint pen, and Will felt a bit like a student-teacher after the headmaster had intervened to control the class. No question who was top dog here.
He began. “Daria Ivanescu. Aged thirty-five. Romanian. Sex worker. As far as we know at this point, killed with a bullet to the head, apparently with expert placement, possibly a silencer, so we’re currently assuming a professional hit.”
He worked through the location, the witnesses, the DNA evidence currently undergoing fast testing, the fact that nothing had emerged from DCS9. Daria had managed to escape police notice in her time as a sex worker, which possibly spoke for the protection she’d been given, until near the end.
“According to her flatmate she had a serious drug habit, and she thought she was about to come into money. We need to look at where she got her stuff. If there are any indications she was trying her hand at blackmail. DS Salt and I had a quick look round her flat.”
Scarlett had allowed them to search through the cupboards where Daria had stored her belongings while she’d slept on the futon.
“We retrieved a laptop, but no phone. It wasn’t in the flat, and it wasn’t with her when she was found. We got her number from her flatmate so we have a limited time to track it before it’s out of charge. Len, see what you can do with the laptop. Anything on the family, Karen?”
A baby-faced female DC straightened in her chair, “The Romanian Embassy say they live in a village a few hours from Bucharest so they haven’t got to them yet.” A lot of Romanian sex workers in the UK came from rural areas, seduced to the bright lights of London to make what they saw as big bucks. “They’ll tell me when they do. I’ve given them a list of basic questions.”
“Okay. Good. Eyewitnesses?”
“Four, guv!” Omar Sadiq was an import from one of the disbanded MITs; in fact most of the people who’d been on overnight were newish. The old guard had been at James’s party. “Two people saw a tall to very tall figure in a dark hoodie, hood up, exiting the building in the time frame. One said he wore dark trousers; the other said he had on blue jeans. The third witness saw a person of medium height in a dark hoodie leaving the building around half past seven and the fourth saw . . . .”
“Let me guess,” Will said. “A very small person. In a dark hoodie.”
A ripple of laughter followed, but Sadiq didn’t smile and neither did Will. Eyewitnesses were notoriously unreliable when they didn’t know they were meant to be paying attention.
“Okay,” he said. “Check to see if any size of person in a dark hoodie turns up on tape, at either end of Greek Street.” He rubbed his tired eyes and began to give out tasks—checking Daria’s tax returns, the clubs she’d worked, if she’d worked direct for the club owners or someone else. If someone had mistaken her for Monique Rembaud.
“The victim’s formal ID is this morning,” he finished. “Postmortem is scheduled for 4:15. Okay. Let’s go.”
The room erupted in a cacophony of scraping chairs and cleared in seconds, save Will himself and Ingham. They meandered out of the Briefing Room together and back to the Incident Room, along the magnolia-painted corridor.
“Finding out who ran her . . . .” Will mused as they walked. “That’s the key. And what blackmail material she may have had. If that’s what she was up to, it’s possible she took it with her to the meet, and it was taken by the killer. Her flatmate said she was naive.”
“Maybe,” Ingham shrugged. “But the simplest explanation is she got out of line. Made an example of. Given the style, I doubt it’s a small-time pimp, but it’s not as if that narrows the field much.”
There were any number of gangs and “businessmen” in London running prostitution, drugs and human-trafficking rackets. And getting information on any of them was notoriously hard.
The Incident Room was clamorous with activity when they entered, set up with white boards at the side, pinned with crime scene photographs from multiple scenes and contacts. Daria’s board was quickly filling up.
Ingham headed for her glass box of an office across the room and Will breathed in the activity of a live murder inquiry. It didn’t feel old. But he was still readapting to how shit the surroundings were after having had his own office and top-of-the-line equipment as a private investigator when he left the Met.
Everything in the room was utilitarian and low budget, though the unit had got new computers and iPads before Will arrived. His chipboard desk sat back-to-back in a block of two, with Salt’s. And Scrivenor and James shared the same setup across a thin stretch of wire-coarse dark-blue carpet tiles. The setup allowed the four of them to bitch and gossip in idle moments, like ‘a bunch of sweetie wives,’ as Scrivenor put it, as if he wasn’t involved himself.
Will hung his suit jacket over his chair and stretched his long frame as best he could against the too-short back.
He’d slept only three of the previous twenty-four hours, but that was also the case for most of the other people in the office—partying or not. And they’d all still be awake most probably for another twenty-four.
They all knew that if you hadn’t made a significant breakthrough within forty-eight hours after a murder had been discovered, when the trail was still hot with information, you were probably going to fail. There was no question of going home.
He didn’t realize he’d begun to drift until a sharp buzz against his thigh shocked him back to full wakefulness, like a prod in the side.
His heart at once began to race—that shock awake and something else. Like last time. Hope.
But when he got the phone out of his trouser pocket—again it wasn’t Tom. It was confirmation of his fate that evening.
Graphic. Golden Square. Sometime after 8. Wear the uniform. It’s nonnegotiable.
Will felt far too tired to filter out his disappointment and the idea of attending a model agency party, especially alone, made him want to run away.
But then he noticed a new unread message from what he recognized as a U.S. number and his heartbeat picked up again. It had arrived a few hours before—probably when he’d been asleep or in the shower, because he hadn’t spotted it come in.
It contained another attachment.
A photograph—another one—of Tom and Cam. Cam, laughing, head thrown back; Tom close beside him, talking into his ear, face alight with glee. Camera equipment in the background. It was innocent. Again. But looking at it, Will knew it hadn’t come from Tom. He wouldn’t be that stupid or that cruel.
Just like the first picture, this one could have been used as a mainstream advertising image of a gay couple in love. It radiated connection. Just like the first picture, it made Will feel ill.
Which would be the point of sending it to him, he assumed. Someone wanted to play on his insecurities, or create them if they didn’t exist. In his professional experience, things like this were sent from malice or from self-interest. Often both.
So, whose self-interest would be served by indicating to Will that Tom had become too close to another man? Who would benefit if Tom and Will broke apart?
The answer that sprung to Will’s mind—the one that made sense—was Melanie, Tom’s U.S. agent. She’d been aggressively appalled by his decision to pull back from top-level modeling just when he’d hit the peak of his career and was about to move to New York and fully into her clutches. Tom’d been by far Melanie’s biggest and most lucrative client, and she’d never stopped sniping at him about his decision; never stopped trying to persuade him to reconsider. Will could easily believe Melanie would get impatient and stop waiting for an organic end, but instead do something to hasten it along. Since Tom had helpfully provided her with the ammun
ition.
She had the means, the motive . . . and the photos had been taken, pretty clearly, on set.
Tom hadn’t contacted him for eighteen hours, not that Will was counting.
But it was the early hours of the morning in LA now. It was stupid to have expected anything.
Tom could have been lying awake, Will’s disappointed self argued.
Hopefully alone.
Fuck, that wasn’t fair.
Will picked up his mouse, tired of himself, and clicked it viciously.
“Guv?” DC Barry Walsh—overweight, balding, baggy-eyed, Brummie—was a welcome distraction hovering beside Will’s desk. “Just a bit of info. Daria’s clubs are all owned by an umbrella company, Fuzi plc.”
Will glowered. “Never heard of it.”
“Clean as a whistle,” Walsh confirmed. He did most of their financial digging because he was excellent at ferreting out obscure bits of information. Will always thought he looked like a tired bloodhound, even when he wasn’t tired. “But their office manager was very cooperative once I mentioned it was a murder inquiry, not a vice one. They said they hire their floor staff from an agency.”
“And they had no idea over all those years that Daria was operating as a sex worker in their clubs.”
Walsh grinned. His front teeth were very white and eerily even. He’d once told Will that a drug-fueled suspect had knocked out the originals. “Absolutely no idea, Guv. They were shocked.”
“Shocked enough to tell us the name of the agency?”
Walsh’s perfect smile widened. “More than happy to move our attention off them. Company called PHC Enterprises. It’s registered at Companies House as an agency for pub and club staff.”
“Uh huh?”
Walsh was clearly building to a punch line. “So I followed a few trails of crumbs. And found the parent company.”
“If you’re waiting for a drum roll Barry, you’re gonna be disappointed. ”
“But you won’t be Guv,” Walsh said with relish. “JWLC Entertainment.”
Will blew out a long breath.
“Joey,” he said.
Walsh preened, as if he’d just presented Will with a very special gift.
Across the room, Will saw the venetian blinds on Ingham’s internal office window and door, flip open, so she could keep an eye on proceedings. He stood and clapped Walsh on the back.
“Brilliant work, Barry. I need to tell Herself.”
Walsh flushed with pleasure.
Will headed straight for Ingham’s open door. Because even if she thought he was pursuing some personal vendetta, she couldn’t ignore this. Plus, he had to inform her about Pez’s stupid fucking party, which fell just inside the sacred forty-eight hours, and pray she banned him from going. Even Pez couldn’t punish him for that. He’d get a written note if he had to.
Ingham glanced up as he stepped inside.
Her small office was spartan, housing a desk, a cabinet and a few chairs. It was also perennially gloomy, with only the blind-shaded window into the main office and a small external one, to light it. The overhead fluorescent tubes hurt Ingham’s eyes, so she worked year-round in a moody puddle of light from a lamp on her desk. When Will was in there he always felt as if they were working through the night.
“All okay?” she asked. Will opened his mouth but she sailed on. “I was just about to call you in. I have to go to the PSA conference in Leicester. They’ve moved it to this month.”
The Police Superintendents Association. So it was going to happen. She was going to accept a promotion at last.
Ingham scowled at her desk, then at Will. “I’ll be there in an observational capacity.” Her tone was quelling. “Feeling things out.”
“Well,” Will tried. “Congratulations?”
Her scowl darkened. Right. He wasn’t meant to have drawn the inference. He was walking on eggshells. “So, when is it?”
“Day after tomorrow,” she said. It sounded defensive, even a bit surly. “I’m leaving you in charge.”
Will blinked. “But . . . Mulligan has seniority.”
Her expression was withering. “Look at it as a dry run.”
And she hadn’t actually confirmed a thing, even as she’d confirmed it all. Will stared at her, vaguely stunned to be confronted with it so soon.
DCI. Was he remotely ready for that?
He managed what he hoped was a firm nod of acknowledgment.
“So. Why did you want to see me?” Ingham asked. He could see at last a flicker of amusement behind her impatient facade.
He told her about Joey and watched the shadow of laughter vanish.
“We have to consider him, Boss,” Will said.
Ingham’s expression was sour. “You make it sound like Joey nipped to Soho and did it himself. He has any number of faceless people happy to get their hands dirty, and to clean up after themselves.”
As if Will didn’t know that better than anyone.
Sanjay had died in the course of a cluster-fuck of an operation to try to arrest one of Joey’s goons. They all knew who was ultimately responsible, not least whichever bent police officer had alerted Joey they were coming. But no one had ever been arrested for Sanjay’s murder, far less charged.
“Do I need to mention,” Ingham went on, “that just because Daria worked for Joey, doesn’t mean he had her knocked off?”
“We have to interview him at least,” Will countered. But he could see where this was going. Where it always went when it came to Joey.
“Do we?” Ingham challenged. “You know it’d be pointless. He’ll have his brief on to us for harassment as soon as we breathe in his direction. But . . . .” She forestalled Will’s restless protest. “The strategic way to do it is start poking at JWLC Entertainment. See how he reacts.”
Will stilled. That sounded promising. “Agreed, but if we don’t try to talk to him as a helpful witness, he’s likely to say we’re continuing harassment by investigating his business. But not if we formally establish with him that our interest is purely Daria’s murder.”
Ingham steepled her hands in front of her mouth and tapped the edge of her fingers against her pursed lips as she thought. “So we arrange a routine information-gathering interview with him as the head of a company that used to employ her.”
“And don’t mention the mobile brothels.”
She snorted. “I’d suggest I do the interview, but I’m not going to insult you by implying you can’t be trusted to deal with him professionally.” Their eyes held, and Will nodded. Encouragement and warning in one opaque sentence. She really was something. “You’ve never actually met him have you?”
Will frowned. “No Boss.” For all the man had changed his life, for all Will’s determination to bring Joey down had obsessed him for two long years, they’d never even been in the same room.
“He’s very . . . cordial. In a psycho kind of way. All right. Go ahead with it. Anything else?”
Will suspected that, in her head, she was writing off the case and moving on to something else. No one expected to make any progress toward actual justice when Joey Clarkson was involved.
“One more thing, Boss. And I understand if you tell me to fuck off.” Please tell me to fuck off. “I wanted to check if can get off for an hour or so around eight.” Ingham waited, brows raised. “Tom’s agent’s got some agency party on and he says he won’t. . . .”
A knock sounded at the office door behind him.
Will swung round, ready to take someone’s head off for interrupting him in the middle of making a tit of himself.
But it was Salt, hovering uncertainly in the open doorway with a pissed-off looking Scrivenor at his shoulder.
In a moment of prescience, Will thought Salt looked a bit like a man who’d been sucker-punched.
“We’ve got DNA results from Daria’s crime scene Ma’am,” Salt said. “Some of the blood’s the victim’s. But some isn’t. The vomit isn’t hers. It came from the same person as left a blood sample on the
knife blade.”
Will frowned. That didn’t fit with a professional execution.
Then again maybe the unit really was just that lucky. Even pros fucked up.
Will turned to Ingham. “This time, maybe they didn’t clean up after themselves,” he said.
“We got a cold hit,” Salt blurted. Scrivenor made a disgusted sound.
Will turned back to him incredulous. “Why the fuck didn’t you say that?”
A cold hit happened when a new crime scene DNA profile was added to the DNA database, and a speculative search matched it to someone already on there. It was a stroke of fantastic luck.
Please God, let it be one of Joey’s known goons.
Salt rubbed a hand over his face and moved further into the office. A second later Scrivenor followed and closed the door.
“It matched June Winton.”
To Will, the anticlimax was so acute it felt like a physical blow.
“It’s fuckin’ bullshit!” Scrivenor spat. And that was unusual enough to crush Will’s pique.
He looked with caution, first at Scrivenor then at Salt. “So do we get three guesses who she is?”
“The June Winton, Guv,” Salt prompted. His expression conveyed abject apology, as if he was letting Will down.
“Who the fuck is the June Winton?” Will demanded.
“The one currently serving life in HMP Bronzefield,” Ingham said, behind him.
4
“So let me get this straight.” Will had started to pace. Someone was playing a practical joke, but he couldn’t work out who. Or why. “You’re telling me the DNA of a lifer who’s been inside for thirteen years and counting? Her fresh DNA has turned up at our murder scene. That’s what you’re telling me?”