Fade to Black (15 page)

“So there were have it, right from the horse’s—” She quickly changed tack. “The err… Doctor Groenewagen’s perspective.”

If Allie’s red face was heating the room, Groenewagen’s glacial stare was cooling it fast. Banks guffawed.

Allie jumped in with a question while firing her own lethal glance at Banks.

“So, Doctor, in a nutcase…
sorry
nutshell, so to speak"—another breathy snigger from Banks—"we are possibly dealing with a homicidal maniac with a God or religious phobia and who was abused as a child, possibly by a priest, and whose father, if he had one, was most likely an extremely violent man. Yes?”

“Yes.” More ice from Groenewagen.

Allie pressed on. “Any guesses… theories on ethnicity, age and perhaps intelligence and profession?”

Groenewagen thawed a little, adjusted her glasses upward and turned to face the four detectives.

“Definitely white male; women don’t do this and aren’t strong enough, anyway. Age? I’d say early twenties, and intelligence... definitely high. It’s impossible to guess an occupation, but he’s probably working beneath his capabilities, possibly as a store-man or transport operator, something like that. He’s strong though, very strong, so again, he’s somebody who probably lifts heavy things regularly.”

“Or works out a lot,” said Connors.

“Possibly,” Groenewagen agreed.

“Not sure about that,” Allie countered. “I think he might be very shy, damaged goods if you will, and that makes him unlikely to join groups or workout publicly, like in a gym.”

“He might have a home gym,” offered Wilkinson.

Allie nodded and agreed that anything was possible. “Of course,” she added, “we don’t yet know if we are dealing with just one person. I’ve got the boys in the back room chasing up CCTV footage. I know there were at least two cameras near the restaurant. Hopefully, we’ll have something very soon.”

Allie thanked Doctor Groenewagen who, to Allie’s relief, even shook her hand. She was also pleased to see that the slight interlude of manic giggling among her team had subsided. It was a safety valve reaction to the horrors they had just been exposed to and there was nothing else for it but to ignore it and press on. Her mobile phone declared a text message had arrived. She snatched at it a little too quickly. It was, of course, from Michael.

Don’t pin your hopes on video footage.

She saw quizzical looks go around among the team and shoved the phone back in her pocket.

She looked hard at her group and immediately wished she hadn’t. The crazy colors came back. Wilkinson glowed crimson from head to foot, Connors had what Allie assumed was a nervous green tinge. Banks, she now saw, dyed his hair brown—there was an underlying carroty hue evident—and Strauss was stony blue.

She looked at the floor to allow the tableau to fade. It did. She wondered again if she was losing her sanity. Again, her phone pinged. She knew it would be Michael telling her she was not insane. Even that knowledge was a strange comfort. She realized she was drawing strength from him and that was a little revelation. Turning to the whiteboard, she spoke to the four detectives, doling out instructions in an almost staccato fashion. It was time to get the operation motoring and she left no one in any doubt about it.

She asked Connors and Strauss to team up and door-knock the immediate area of the murder and told Banks to complete the task of running down the Golden Bamboo customers from last night and interview them. She didn’t add that it was the job Connors had been originally assigned.

“Wouldn’t it be better if I did that?” Connors bleated.

Allie ignored him. In her view, he was lucky to still be on the case, let alone complaining. She asked Wilkinson to stay on the CCTV trail and stay behind for a moment to confirm the poster wording for the Tube station and general area posters, plus radio and TV bulletins. Wishing them good luck, she suggested they reconvene at 6:00 p.m.

“What are
you
going to be doing?” Allie didn’t need to look around to know it was Strauss. She turned and answered her evenly. “As a matter of fact, I’m going back to the crime scene.” She glanced at her watch.

“I expect to run into you and Connors in and around the area fairly shortly.”

She eyeballed them all again. “I’m open to suggestions at all times, you know. This is not the Allie St. Clair show.” She realized she had said this purely for Strauss’ benefit and mentally kicked herself. “Obviously, my approach is going to be different to Billy’s and I guess we’re all going to have to adjust in some way. The last twenty-four hours has been horrendous really—Billy’s passing, this heinous crime—and to some, my appointment as your DCI might also qualify in that regard. It’s a lot to take in, believe me, I understand that.”

There was no discernible reaction from any of the detectives. She wondered whether Billy had also felt this strange isolation. What was amazing to her was the immediacy with which her colleagues seemed to have separated her from member of the team to part of the establishment. Most of them had worked, laughed, and drank with her for nearly five years, and apart from the falling-out with Rachel, it had been enjoyable and, at least from her point of view, there had been genuine camaraderie. She admitted the possibility with a sinking feeling that she would never again experience that.

In any case, it was time for everyone to get moving, so she wrapped things up. “Ok, let’s go. Please touch base if anything significant turns up.” Despite the lack of reaction from the team, she smiled and again wished them good luck.

She watched her young Murder Investigation Team file out of the green room door and again noted that there was no particular urgency to their movements. There should have been. They were the youngest MIT at the Met and they were on trial as much as she. She sighed again and shook her head. She had been waiting for someone,
anyone
, to ask the obvious question during the briefing, namely,
‘Were any fingerprints taken from the scene, either the victim’s or the murderer’s?'
Very, very basic stuff, yet no one had asked.

The fact was, there was one set of fingerprints all over the crime scene, but there was no record of them on the Holmes System. The murderer was not known to the police. It was all in the report. She checked her watch. It was 11:32 a.m. She started back to her office, now planning to ring the scene of crime photographer, Everett something-or-other. Those photos of the wall in King’s Lane were
wrong
.

*****

Everett Blight struggled to comprehend what the female voice on the end of his telephone line was saying. He knew why. It was the only thing he
could
understand. He had snorted a line of coke longer than a McDonald’s queue about four hours ago and now, he felt like death. His eyes were streaming and his nose felt like it had been infused with lemon juice. It was a nice, cultured voice on the line though, that much he comprehended. Quite sexy, really. His senses were rousing themselves. Not only hope raised its head.

“I’m sorry,” he managed at last, “
Who
is this?”

“Detective Chief Inspector St. Clair.”

“
Christ
,” he said to himself. Or did he say it out loud? He couldn’t be sure. He sat up straighter in his bed.

“Yes, Inspector, umm, what can I help you with?”

He heard the exasperation in the voice.

“Last night’s crime scene photos, from Earl’s Court… You
did
take them, did you not?”

Now he understood. His brain was clearing fast. “Sorry, yes. Indeed I did, Inspector. You should have them; I dropped them at—”

“Yes, I have them, Mr. Blight.” He liked the formal mode of address. It was rare.

“Great, so what is it that I can do for you?”

“I visited the scene last night, Mr. Blight. My memory of a couple of things isn’t reflected in the photos”—she paused—“strange as that sounds.”

“No, no,” Blight blurted, even though he thought it sounded bloody strange.

“Can I ask a favor of you, Mr. Blight?”

He figured that voice could ask him anything, but he’d still be charging.

“Yes, of course, Inspector.”

“Could you meet me at the crime scene in about half an hour and bring an infrared filter and appropriate film with you?”

Now this is unusual on two counts
, Blight thought. Firstly, nobody ever asked for infrared shots during the day and secondly, here was a cop who knew something about photography.
What next?
he thought, although mild panic nibbled at the edge of his brain. He hoped her real enquiry wasn’t about another aspect of his business.

*****

I’m coming with you,
the text message announced. Allie wasn’t entirely surprised by it. She figured Michael wasn’t going to twiddle his thumbs all day.
What the hell
, she thought as she typed her reply; this whole thing was just getting weirder by the minute.

I’ll be in a black Vauxhall, she typed. Meet me near the corner of Broadway and Tothill Street, outside The Adult Shop
. Despite the seriousness of the morning, she smiled to herself.

His reply, as usual, was instantaneous.
Cute. Ok, ten minutes.

Ten minutes was cutting it fine, but doable. She asked Margaret Daly to quickly organize a pool car for her and called Wilkinson and asked her to progress the work with the communications department without her and work up a draft treatment for the posters and TV stuff that she would have to look at later. She grabbed her bag and headed off to the elevators for her journey to the basement car park. How she would ever explain Michael’s presence to anyone else, she didn’t yet know, but she’d take the risk. Superintendent Carr walked out of her office, narrowly avoiding a collision with St. Clair. They fell into step as they walked to the elevators. This was not St. Clair’s ideal scenario. The inevitable question came.

“Is the investigation underway?” There was no note of friendliness that Allie could discern.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m just going back to the crime scene now for a second look… and to coordinate some local enquiries.”

Carr nodded. “Any early clue as to the victim’s identity or the perpetrator’s for that matter?”

“None yet, ma’am. The victim was badly—”

“Yes, I heard.” Carr interrupted. “Not from
you,
I might add, but I heard.” Allie exhaled heavily. Carr noticed. “Too much to ask was it?”

Allie stopped in her tracks. “Sorry, ma’am?”

Carr stopped as well and faced Allie squarely, speaking slowly, as if to a child. “Is it too much to ask that I be briefed on significant aspects of the case?”

Allie slowed her speech down too and took a step toward Carr, her fatigue leading her to a retaliatory response she might not otherwise have mounted. A flicker of hesitation crossed her features before ‘sod it’ won the day.

“Ma’am, I’m very sorry I got in the way of your media interview this morning. I know how important it was to you. It won’t happen again. But as for the case, information to enable the briefing and plan to be put into operation has only just come to hand. My team, to whom I have assigned various duties, has only left the building in the last five minutes. They are well aware of the importance and urgency with which they are to discharge their duties and the need to report in as per
my
instructions.”

Carr flushed and stepped back. Anyone who had heard St. Clair’s response and who had an ear for such things would have realized Carr had just been told in the classiest of ways to basically fuck-off and let St. Clair do her job.

“Right, the, err… best time to get me will be after 2:00 p.m. I have meetings till then,” she stammered.

“2:15 p.m. it is, then, ma’am. Hopefully, I’ll be ringing you much earlier with some news!” she said brightly over her shoulder as she continued on to the elevator.

Detective Chief Inspector Ellen Carr stood and watched the elevator doors retreat at precisely the right time to allow St. Clair to walk straight in. They stared at each other for as long as it took for the doors to close again. She hoped the two administration staff who passed her in the corridor at that point couldn’t hear her elevated heartbeat; it was thumping jackhammer loud because of what she had just seen. She glanced behind her and noted that the couple had not broken stride. Good, they hadn’t noticed.

She exhaled a long, slow breath and decided a cup of tea was just the thing. She allowed herself a small smile as she headed for the amenities room. The last time she’d seen eyes change from bright blue to that unique, iridescent green had been more than twenty years ago.

Chapter Eleven

The black Vauxhall saloon was brand new and St. Clair breathed in that peculiar smell that only emanates from hot-off-the-production-line cars, that heady mixture of leather, rubber and maybe silicone? It was the only thing cars had over motorbikes, she conceded. But bikes had their own allure. Exhaust fumes weren’t half bad.

She swung the car right out of Broadway onto Tothill Street and spotted Michael immediately. He was trying to stand inconspicuously in front of the adult shop entrance, but failing. He was not easily camouflaged. She pulled to the curb, holding up a car behind her. Michael sprinted the ten yards to the car, his black coat flapping wildly. He vaulted into the passenger seat, slamming the door as he did so. Allie hit the accelerator hard and gave a wave to the gentleman driving the low car behind her. She looked again in her rearview mirror—was the man yelling at her?

“Everything ok?” Michael asked.

“Cloth-cap man back there obviously didn’t like me pulling over for you. He’s going butchers back there.”

“Butchers?”

Allie laughed. “Sorry—‘butcher’s hook’—
crook
.” She noticed his lingering ‘no comprende’ expression.

“He’s rather annoyed,” she said finally in her best Belgravia. “One hopes he will regain his composure without undue delay.” She shot him a twinkly smile.