Leighton lives on the fifth floor. Dom and Parekh buzz the intercom for flat fifty-three and wait. After almost a minute, Parekh glances at Dom.
‘Try it again.’
She presses the buzzer.
This time the intercom crackles and a man’s voice says, ‘Hello?’
Dom leans closer to the intercom. ‘Are you Jon Leighton?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Detective Inspector Bell and Detective Constable Parekh. We’d like to speak to you. Can we come in?’
There’s a pause, then Dom hears the door unlock. They enter the building and head to the lift. A few ceiling lights are blown, making the lobby seem gloomy. Over to the right a couple of bikes are locked to the emergency exit. Next to them a sleeping bag has been pushed up against the wall, some empty lager cans heaped up beside it.
‘Nice place,’ Parekh says.
Dom grimaces.
They step into the lift. The stench of piss is overwhelming. There’s a wet patch in the corner; it ripples as the lift ascends. By the time the door judders open Dom can’t wait to get out. They follow the corridor, counting off the numbers on the doors. The walls are grubby; a hodgepodge of sticky hands, furniture scrapes and the odd bit of graffiti.
Parekh glances at him. ‘Hardly the Savoy, is it?’
Dom shakes his head but says nothing. He’s thinking about the interview. This guy’s a person of interest, but not a suspect, not yet. They need enough to take him out of play, or put him in. Parekh’s a good detective but she’s still new to this game; an interview like this is good experience. He meets her eye. ‘You comfortable leading this?’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘Good.’ Dom can tell she’s nervous at leading the interview, but she’s pleased he wants her on point too. ‘Gently at first. Get the feel of him. Then decide the best way to work it.’
Dom knocks on the door. He notices the paintwork’s fresh white, unlike the others they’ve passed. The wall on either side is cleaner, too, the scuff marks and handprints washed off.
On the other side of the door there’s the sound of a bolt being drawn back, then the clunk of the deadlock releasing. The door opens. A stocky man, a couple of inches shorter than Dom, stands in the doorway. His suit is well cut, looks expensive. It almost hides his beer belly. ‘All right, fella?’
‘Jon Leighton?’ Dom asks.
‘That’s right. Guess you want to come in?’
‘If we can,’ Parekh says. ‘We’ve got a few questions you might be able to help us with.’
Leighton stands aside. ‘Come inside.’
Parekh goes first. Dom hangs back, watching the way Leighton ogles the female detective’s bum as she passes, and the way he follows too close behind her as he directs them to the living room. Dom doesn’t like it. Suspects he knows what type of man Jon Leighton is, and why Kate Adams wouldn’t want him near her.
The room is sparsely furnished. Leighton gestures towards a pair of cheap sofas with faded blue covers. ‘Sit down if you want.’
His voice echoes, loud, not helped by the laminate floor and the lack of curtains.
‘Thanks,’ Parekh says, perching on the edge of the nearest sofa. Dom sits beside her, forcing Leighton to take the other one.
Leighton flops down onto it, and asks, ‘So what’s this about?’
‘Were you at the Wetherspoons on Euston Road on Saturday night?’ Parekh asks. ‘It was the 999 night.’
Leighton gives her a suggestive smile. ‘I went along for a bit, had some laughs. Why?’
Parekh doesn’t answer the question. Instead she passes him a photo of Kate Adams. ‘Do you recognise her?’
Leighton looks at the photo, saying nothing. He doesn’t need to speak, though; Dom knows he remembers Kate, he saw it in the slight smile that flicked up the corners of his lips as he first looked at the photo. Often a person’s physical reactions are as telling as the things they say.
Leighton looks at Parekh. ‘Could do, can’t be sure. Why, what’s she done?’
‘She didn’t do anything. We need to know if you recognise her.’
Leighton shrugs. He tilts his head to the side and drops his gaze to Parekh’s chest. ‘Dunno, sweetheart, sorry.’
Sweetheart. The term of endearment sounds more like a come-on the way Leighton says it. Dom resists the urge to jump in, knowing he has to let Parekh keep the lead. If she can deal with Biggs she’s more than capable of handling this prick.
Parekh hands Leighton a different photo; Kate Adams’s face in close-up, her eyes staring lifelessly upwards, just as they’d found her. ‘How about now?’
Leighton takes the picture. The colour drains from his cheeks. When he speaks the bravado’s gone. ‘What the … why are you showing me this?’
‘This young woman was murdered last night. I’m asking you nicely right now, but if you continue to be obstructive we can take this back to the station.’ Parekh pauses, letting her words sink in. ‘So, tell me, did you see her in the pub?’
Leighton slumps forward. Hangs his head. ‘OK, yes. I saw her.’
‘Where?’
‘Just in the bar, you know. Her and a mate were having a few drinks.’
‘Try to chat her up?’ Parekh asks.
Leighton looks at Dom. ‘Might have.’
‘Look mate,’ Dom says. ‘We’re not auditioning you for a dating show here. Did you speak or not?’
Leighton looks embarrassed. Doesn’t meet his eye. ‘Tried to. But she wasn’t having any of it.’
Parekh nods. ‘Tell us what happened.’
‘I’d clocked her downstairs earlier with her mate, but they were in some heavy conversation so I went back to the people I was with.’
‘These people have names?’
Leighton reels off three names, adding, ‘Dan’s a nurse, that’s how come we were there, for the free first drink.’
Parekh notes the names. ‘Did you see her again?’
‘So, yeah, later I spotted her on her own. She was going to the bogs. Well, I thought nothing ventured and all that, so I tried to have a little chat.’
‘And how did it work out?’
‘Not good, to be honest – she got all freaked out, saying I was hassling her. Seemed really high-maintenance.’ He glanced at Dom. ‘You know what I mean? So I left her to it, figured I didn’t need that kind of crap.’
Dom keeps his expression neutral. He keeps watching Leighton: taking note of the anxious fiddling with the cufflink on his left sleeve, the rather forced laddishness, the frequent glances at Parekh’s chest. Dom knows Leighton being a creep doesn’t make him a killer; it does make him a twat, though.
‘Did you see her after that?’ Parekh asks.
Leighton shakes his head. ‘Her? No. But there was this guy, he kept giving me the evil eye, ever since I spoke to her.’
‘Was he with her?’
‘No, but after she’d gone down to the bar it looked like he was watching her. Given the way she’d freaked on me I wondered if they were together or something, you know, playing some game and me butting in wasn’t part of it.’
‘So you thought they knew each other?’ Parekh asks.
‘Maybe.’
Dom leans forward. This could be important. ‘What made you think that?’
‘Dunno really. Something about the intense way he looked at her. And the way he looked at me after I’d spoken to her was, like, really angry.’
Parekh jots down what he’s said. ‘Anything else?’
Leighton’s silent, thinking, his lips pursed tight together. ‘Nah, don’t think so.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Quite tall, medium build, I guess. Darkish hair, although it looked a bit weird, like he was wearing a rug or something, hard to tell in the pub.’
‘Distinguishing features?’
‘Not really. I guess you’d say he was all right looking.’
‘How old?’ Dom asks. This is good. The height and build is consistent with
the man on the CCTV outside the flat. It also fits with what Eva Finch said.
Leighton shrugs. ‘Older than me, I reckon.’
Parekh takes the photos back from Leighton. ‘Thank you, you’ve been very helpful. We’re going to need you to come in and make a statement.’
Leighton gives a weak smile. ‘I can do that.’
‘First thing tomorrow?’
He looks pained. ‘I can’t, not first thing. I’ve got some viewings lined up, can’t miss them.’
‘And this is a murder inquiry, Mr Leighton,’ Parekh says.
Leighton sinks back against the sofa. The hems of his trousers ride up, and Dom glimpses the washed-out socks below have begun to fray around the top edge. The suit and the brown brogues he’s wearing must have cost him most of five hundred quid, but the socks and the flat were own-brand value.
Leighton looks at Dom. ‘I’m commission-only. If I don’t show those properties, then—’
Dom nods. ‘I get it, mate. What’s the earliest you can come in?’
‘Ten-thirty.’
He glances at Parekh, gives a little nod.
‘Ten-thirty is fine,’ she says, handing Leighton her card. ‘Ask for me at the desk.’
They do a quick debrief back in the car. Dom knows better than to leap to assumptions, but he still feels a kick of adrenaline – it’s possible Jon Leighton could identify their primary suspect.
Parekh’s driving faster than she did on the way out. Dom doesn’t mention it; he knows she’s feeling the rush as much as him, that surge of excitement, of hope, when you hit on something that might help you solve a case.
He thinks about their next move. ‘That CCTV from the Wetherspoons. I know you said the area on the mezzanine our voyeur stood in was a blind spot, but do they have a camera on the entrance?’
‘They do, yes. I’ve got the footage back at the office.’
‘Great. We need to separate out the face shots of all the men entering the pub during the hours Kate Adams was there. Then get Eva Finch and Jon Leighton to go through them. I know Eva said she couldn’t see properly without her contacts, but if Leighton got a good look, between the two of them we might get an ID.’
‘I’ll get on to it first thing, guv.’
‘Cheers.’ The link’s tenuous at the moment, but if Leighton and Eva Finch can pick out the man from the pub’s CCTV then the techs could do a comparative analysis between that man and the one caught on camera by the takeaway. It could get them a damn sight closer to identifying who the hell he is.
Parekh turns on to Euston Road. The traffic’s heavy as always. She crawls along behind the cab in front. Looks across at him. ‘I’m joining a few of the team at the Drake and Castle. Do you want to come, sir?’
‘Not sure I’d be welcome.’
‘Maybe not, I guess.’
‘Just drop me at the tube and go and have fun, yeah.’
Parekh nods. ‘Yes, sir.’
She looks stoked, and he recognises the look. The rush you get from a new lead, especially in a case as frustrating as this one, can be more intoxicating than booze. He hopes she’ll be careful. He knows from experience where a few drinks with the team can lead. He’s been where it leads. An image of Therese in the Princess Victoria with a gin and tonic in her hand floats across his mind’s eye; the end of their first week on the Operation Atlantis team. A drink and a chat, that’s how it started. A few hours later they were fucking each other senseless in his flat.
He never meant to fall in love with her.
32
CLEMENTINE
The Wetherspoons is what’s left of an old Victorian pub that’s had its guts pulled out and been refurbished into something generic. Death Stalker’s choice is an interesting one; according to his police source, this was where Kate Adams spent her last night out before she died. There’s no media here, though. Tonight, the benches lining the pavement are vacant aside from a few hard-core smokers.
Pushing open the sturdy door, I step into the pub. It’s busy. Most seats are taken and there’s a ring of people around the bar. I scan the room, looking for Bob, but don’t spot him. There’s a group of people by the fireplace. I watch them, wondering if Bob’s late and that’s the rest of the group. No. Their laughter is shrill, and there are shot glasses piled on the table in front of them. I discount them and keep looking.
Another minute passes. I’m feeling awkward now. I can’t stand by the door forever. I make my way across to the bar and order gin and soda. I don’t usually drink alcohol in public; I can’t risk the lack of control, the dulling of the senses it brings. The heightened risk that people will see me for what I am.
Tonight’s different, though. Tonight I need some extra courage.
‘Five pounds ninety,’ the floppy-haired blond barman says. His accent’s Australian, but his pasty skin has a proper London pallor.
I hand him the cash. ‘I’m looking for a meeting of—’
‘What’s the booking under?’
I look blank. I don’t know Death Stalker’s real name, and the other option is going to sound odd. ‘I’m not sure.’
The barman raises an eyebrow. He speaks slower, as if he thinks I’m stupid and unable to understand the question. ‘What’s the name of the person who booked?’
Over the noise of the bar, I say the only name I have. ‘Death Stalker.’
He shows no surprise. ‘Back room,’ he says, nodding to the far end of the bar. ‘Through the curtain.’
Weird. ‘Thanks.’
Taking my drink, I move along the bar and through the gaps between the sofas cluttering the space by the fire until I’m standing in front of a black velvet curtain hanging ceiling to floor.
My mouth feels dry. This is my last chance to opt out. Once I open the curtain and step inside, they’ll know what I look like. I won’t be able to hide. I think of Wade’s concern, and of the mystery surrounding Death Stalker’s identity.
Walk away.
I take a gulp of my drink and hope it helps me hold my nerve. If I leave now I’ll be cast out of the group. I can’t let that happen; this amateur group has to beat the police. I have to prove it’s possible, even if I fear the Lover could be one of them. I messaged Wade before I came here, told him the location of this meeting; thought it would give me some comfort, him knowing. It doesn’t feel that way, though. Not now I’m here.
I take another mouthful of gin, then pull aside the edge of the curtain and slide between the wall and the swathes of black velvet to enter the private room.
It’s smaller than I’d anticipated and has a whiff of stale beer. The walls are clad halfway with dark wood panelling, and the space above is painted burgundy. This, combined with the ineffective light from the wall lamps, makes the place seem murky, claustrophobic. I clutch my glass tighter and resist the urge to bolt.
It’s too late to change my mind. In the centre of the room is a table, and sitting around it are six people. Five of them are looking at me.
Bob’s the closest. He’s wearing a green waistcoat that’s straining at the buttons, and a keen smile. I give him a wave and he starts to ease his bulk off the chair.
‘Great you made it, love,’ he says, coming towards me. ‘Thought you might have got lost.’
He looks like he might hug me. I step back, out of reach, and check my watch. It’s ten past seven, so I’m hardly late. I shrug. ‘Traffic, you know.’
Bob nods. ‘Let me introduce you to the gang.’
I follow him to the table. My heart’s thumping against my ribs. Every fibre of my being is telling me this is a mistake. I should have stayed alone in my apartment, anonymous – safe. I clench my fists tighter to stop my hands shaking. Fear that my grip might shatter the glass.
‘This is The Watcher,’ Bob says to the others. There’s a note of pride in his voice, like he’s passing on great wisdom rather than stating the bloody obvious.
A guy with dark shaggy hair, cute in an emo kind of way, meets my gaze. ‘Welcome. I’m Gho
st Avenger.’
So he’s the mortuary guy. I force a smile. ‘Hey.’
Beside him is a girl I recognise – Crime Queen. I realise she’s in a couple of my photos from the crime scene yesterday, but always on the edge of the frame. She’s young, late teens I’d guess, the bottom end of the age range she’d answered on her questionnaire. Her purple hair is cut into a short bob that frames her elfin features. Her skin looks almost ivory against the blackness of her tight mesh top and ripped-at-the-knees jeans. Thick make-up covers her acne. She looks nothing like she does in her online photo – in it her skin is perfect, her eyes bigger and wider, her cheekbones more pronounced. It reminds me that however much we give in to our vanity and change our appearance online, we’re still stuck with reality in real life. I make eye contact with her. ‘Hi.’
She doesn’t say anything. I notice how she leans a fraction closer to Ghost Avenger, laying her claim to him. Interesting. I file the alliance in my memory.
‘Come, sit,’ Bob says, gesturing to an empty chair beside his.
I do as he asks. The table is covered with newspaper clippings, photos and several laptops. I push Bob’s clutter towards him, making space to put down my drink.
The middle-aged woman sitting opposite holds out her hand. ‘I’m Jen, erm, Justice League.’
I shake her hand as that seems to be what she’s expecting. ‘The Watcher,’ I say. The name still feels odd to speak aloud. But from Justice League’s correction and Bob and Ghost Avenger’s introductions, it seems that using online names is how the group operates in real life.
The dark-haired guy beside Justice League nods. ‘I’m Bloodhound,’ he says. He sounds rather embarrassed by the moniker.
‘Hey,’ I say. I force a smile, and the guy meets my gaze for a moment before glancing away. He looks tense, uncomfortable – how I’m feeling, although I hope I’m disguising it better than him. And he looks older than his online information says he is; more early forties than early thirties. That’s the problem with knocking a few years off your age online – it only works if you never meet.
There’s still one person I’ve not spoken to, a slim thirty-something with mop hair and a boyish face. Death Stalker, I presume. He’s sitting at the head of the table, watching me. I meet his gaze and hold it. Wait for him to speak.
My Little Eye Page 17