The Darkness Within, page 3
He was drawing the briefing to a close, allocating jobs for his team, when he spotted McKenna coming out of her office. She stood at the front of the room, tapped her watch and nodded at Denning. ‘I don’t want to interrupt, everyone. Just a gentle reminder the new Chief Super wants to speak to us all straight after lunch.’
There was an audible groan from the room. They had just got a major murder investigation off the ground, with days – possibly weeks – of slog ahead of them. The last thing they needed was the unwelcome distraction of a meet and greet with the new Detective Chief Superintendent.
Denning was on the point of saying they were too busy and could she make apologies on their behalf, but McKenna had already disappeared back into her office, the door clicking shut behind her.
Chapter Five
Molly grabbed a seat at the back of the room, furthest from the small stage that had been hastily cobbled together from a couple of bits of rostra. She hoped no one would sit next to her. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk right now. If she was honest, she’d rather not be there at all.
As soon as she’d walked into the office that morning, she had seen that the incident room had been jumping like a flea on a hotplate.
‘A murder,’ Trudi had said before Molly had even sat down at her desk. ‘Serious, by all accounts. A former cop.’ Trudi had then mimed lighting a cigarette, forgetting Molly had given up some months back. Molly declined the offer to join her, though part of her was tempted. Despite her will power, the cravings had never gone away, not entirely; they still lingered like hunger pangs, or struck unexpectedly, like the urge to go to the loo at inconvenient times.
She’d told Trudi she’d catch her later – perhaps go for a drink one evening, assuming this murder investigation didn’t destroy their social lives for the foreseeable. She’d headed to her desk, woken her computer from sleep mode, and checked her emails.
But she’d struggled to focus. Trudi’s words had mirrored those of Mags:
‘I’ve got information about a murder. And it’s big.’
Molly had spent the duration of the bus ride back from the doctor’s trying her best to blot out Mags and her phone call, yet the worm of curiosity had wriggled round her brain and refused to go away.
Meet me after work…
She knew Mags, so she knew it would be some kind of fantasy – an embellished half-truth that she would run by Molly, gauging her reaction to see if there was the makings of a story. Molly was determined not to play her games.
And now this…
A meet and greet with the new Detective Chief Superintendent. He wanted to introduce himself personally to all eighteen MITs and familiarise himself with their workloads. It was good management practice, apparently, and the Met was all about good management these days.
They were in what was jokingly called the conference room, located on the ground floor. It had originally been the cafeteria when the building had served as a working police station, before the most recent round of cuts had forced its closure and conversion into office space for the East London MITs. Her own team had been camped out at Stoke Newington Police Station for the past year and a half until the refurbishment of their new home in Barkingside had been completed. The place had been given a cursory lick of paint, and a thin beige carpet now covered the floor. But it was all slightly soulless, and there was a slightly sour smell that had somehow ingrained itself into the fabric of the building and refused to let go.
A couple of dozen chairs had been arranged in a horseshoe facing the impromptu stage. She watched as the room began to fill up.
Denning was sitting at the front chatting to Betty Taggart, their heads locked together in serious conversation.
The new DCS was called Ian Harrison. Molly knew very little about him, except that he’d survived the culling of senior management that had resulted from the Met’s latest reorganisation, and was rumoured to have a reputation for not suffering fools gladly.
She glanced at her watch. They were already running late.
Trudi slipped in the door behind her, quickly dropping a packet of B&H into the top pocket of her blouse. She looked around the room, spotted Molly and sat down next to her.
‘Alright, Moll. This is a right load of old piss, ain’t it?’ She tipped her head towards the small stage. ‘It’s a bit like meeting a new headmaster. And I never liked mine much.’
Molly smiled her agreement just as Harrison entered the room. He strutted towards the stage with a confident swagger that let everyone know he was the new man in charge. Harrison was tall and broadly built, with a weathered face that hinted at someone who liked to spend a lot of time outdoors. He had a severe salt-and-pepper haircut that did little to temper his craggy features.
There was another, younger man with him. He was of a similar height to Harrison, though slimmer, and exuded the same air of self-confidence as the strutting DCS.
Both men walked onto the small stage and the room fell silent.
Harrison’s voice was clipped and authoritative, with a strong trace of a South London accent.
‘Good afternoon everyone, and thank you for coming along today. I realise you’re all busy people and your time is precious, so I’ll keep things brief.’ He turned to the younger man. ‘Firstly, let me introduce Justin Morrow, London Assembly member and Deputy Chairman of the Police and Crime Committee.’ Morrow was in his mid-forties and immaculately groomed. He was dressed in a smart Armani suit and pale blue checked shirt, his thick blond hair cut in a trendy style. Molly could almost smell the Tom Ford aftershave wafting off him. He reminded her of a slightly older, slightly more polished version of Denning.
Morrow spoke with the slickness of a professional politician. Unlike Harrison, his eloquent tone suggested he was the product of a private education. He told them that he considered himself to be a friend of the police, and wanted them to know he was on their side. There were a few nods and grunts from the audience, but otherwise most people looked like they’d heard it all before.
When Morrow finished speaking, he handed the baton over to Harrison.
Harrison was fiery and bombastic. He spoke for several minutes outlining the direction he wanted to take the MITs in, referencing his background and experience as a serving police officer. He’d clearly perfected the art of management speak, and spouted it like a practised performer.
Molly let the endless stream of professional bullshit wash over her as her mind returned to Mags. The woman was a seasoned liar: it was what she did for a living. There was no reason for Molly to believe a word she said. So why couldn’t she escape the feeling that she shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss her?
She glanced back at the two men on the stage.
Harrison was still talking, while Morrow smiled his support. By now, most of the room had their arms folded, or were fidgeting in their seats. She spotted Betty Taggart sneaking a sly peek at her watch, while Trudi stifled a yawn.
Harrison finally ended his speech to a ripple of limp applause, and asked if there were any questions. But before there was a chance for any hands to rise, a mobile phone tinkled into life. For a second, Molly thought it was hers – another call from Mags – until she remembered her phone was still in her jacket pocket on the back of her chair in the office. All eyes were focussed at the front of the room as Denning removed his phone from his pocket and chatted to someone. A spluttering of conversation rippled through the room and Harrison shot Denning a filthy look. Molly glanced at Trudi, and they both tried not to laugh. Denning finished the call and muttered something to Betty Taggart, who mouthed an apology at Harrison. When he’d finished whispering in her ear, Denning got to his feet.
‘Apologies everyone, but we’ve just been informed by the local CID that there’s been a serious assault in Islington. They think it might be an attempted murder.’
Chapter Six
Technically, it was Highbury rather than Islington. Quieter and leafier than its trendier neighbour, Highbury seemed mainly to consist of large residential properties and green open spaces.
The street they wanted was located off Highbury Hill, not too far from the Emirates Stadium. Arundel Road was typical of the area: bay-windowed terraced houses looking onto tidy gardens. The strobing blue lights from a couple of parked squad cars guided them like a beacon to the right address.
A cordon had been set up in front of number twenty-four; police tape stretched between a lamppost and a tree, while uniformed officers ushered members of the public away from the scene.
Denning and Neeraj showed their ID to one of the officers, then ducked under the cordon. They were on the point of asking who was in charge when an efficient-looking woman in a smart grey suit strode over to meet them. Denning guessed she was the CID officer who’d called it in.
‘Victim’s name’s David Cairns,’ she said as soon as she was within earshot. ‘Lives at number twenty-four.’ The CID detective introduced herself as DS Anna Klein. She was in her late twenties, with a cheery face, framed by a pair of metal glasses, which made her look a bit like a librarian. ‘He’s been the victim of a nasty assault occasioning actual bodily harm,’ she added. ‘He’s in a pretty bad way.’
‘Where is he now?’ Denning asked.
‘He was taken away in an ambulance about ten minutes ago. The paramedics reckon he’s got concussion and internal bleeding, not to mention a few broken bones for good measure. They said that if they hadn’t got here when they did, we would likely be looking at a fatality.’ She let the significance of her words hang in the air. ‘One of the neighbours reported it. Heard a noise in the street and glanced out of her front window to see a man running away.’ She pointed to a bay-windowed house across the street. ‘A Mrs Joyce Lindsey. Uniform have spoken to her but she was unable to give much of a description.’
‘I’ll have a word with her,’ Denning said, ‘see if there’s anything else she can add. A bit of background on the victim might be useful if nothing else.’
There was a fresh crimson puddle drying on the pavement, a vivid reminder of the violence that had just taken place in broad daylight in a quiet residential street. Denning looked up and down the road; this looked like the land of twitching curtains. Somebody must have seen something.
‘Any other witnesses?’
‘Uniform have tried speaking to the immediate neighbours, but everyone seems to be out at the moment – at work, presumably. Of those who are in, no one seems to have seen or heard anything until we arrived on the scene. We haven’t initiated wider house-to-house yet – we thought it best to wait until you got here. Let the big boys make that call.’
‘What about CCTV?’ Denning asked.
‘Not much round here,’ Klein informed him. ‘There’s little need. Apart from the odd burglary and the occasional spot of car crime, it’s a pretty safe area. Popular with families and young professionals.’
‘It’s pretty posh round here,’ Neeraj said, looking at the twin rows of well-kept houses that lined the street. ‘Could this have been a mugging? Bloke’s almost home – takes out his door keys and his eye’s off the ball. Would only take a few seconds for someone to jump him.’
Klein shook her head. ‘The level of violence suggests otherwise. Plus he still had his wallet and his watch on him. And his door keys, for that matter.’ She threw them a wry smile. ‘I’d say this has all the hallmarks of an attempted murder. That’s why we called you boys in.’
MIT’s remit was strict: murder and serious crime. The high volume, day-to-day stuff was left to CID. There was the inevitable overlap of course, and this looked like it might fall into something of a grey area. If the victim died of his injuries, then they would certainly be looking at a murder inquiry – and it would be their call. But if this was simply a common assault that had got out of hand, then they’d be batting it back into CID’s camp quick enough. At this stage, it was too early to tell which way it might fall, so Denning was prepared to keep an open mind.
‘Which hospital did they take him to?’ Denning asked.
‘Whittington is the nearest. Though it’ll be some time before he can talk to you.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘That’s assuming he recovers.’
Denning took her card, telling her they’d take charge for now and get in touch if anything changed. But with the murder of a former cop hanging over their heads, this was one unwelcome distraction they didn’t need. And yet, as he watched Klein heading back to her car, something inside his gut told him there was more to this than first impressions suggested.
* * *
Joyce Lindsey showed Denning and Neeraj into the comfortable sitting room of her terraced home, the wide bay window of which overlooked the scene of the attack.
Joyce, as she insisted they call her, was a well-preserved sixty-something, dressed in a pair of beige slacks and an expensive-looking cashmere pullover. She had a pair of fluffy mules on her feet that looked like they were worn for comfort rather than fashion.
‘We’ve lived here for over ten years,’ she said, ‘and I’ve probably exchanged about half a dozen words with him in all that time.’ She sat opposite them on a green velvet armchair, while they occupied a matching sofa that faced a faux-marble fireplace, upon which were arranged several porcelain figurines. The living room smelt of lavender Febreze. ‘He was always polite,’ she continued, ‘but never what you would call friendly. He keeps himself to himself, and I’ve never seen anyone going into his house.’ She blushed slightly. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m nosy, but it’s a very friendly street here, or at least it used to be. All the neighbours will tell you the same thing: he’s something of a recluse.’
‘Do you know how long Mr Cairns has lived round here?’ Denning asked.
‘Oh, it’s Doctor Cairns,’ she said with a little smile. ‘And I only know that because I took in a package for him once.’
‘He’s a doctor?’ Denning asked.
‘Not a medical one, I don’t think. More a teacher.’ She shook her head. ‘Not a school teacher. A university one. You know what I mean…’
‘An academic?’ Denning suggested. His parents were academics: lecturers at Keele University in Staffordshire. While his mother only used her title professionally, his father introduced himself to everyone he met as ‘Dr Denning’.
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘One of those kind of doctors.’ She gave another little smile. ‘Though I guess he’s retired now.’
‘So you have spoken to him?’ Neeraj asked.
She looked at him for a moment before she answered. ‘I’ve never had what you’d call a proper conversation with him. I mean, we’d say hello if I passed him in the street, and naturally he thanked me when I took that package in for him.’
‘Can you take us through what you saw today?’ Denning asked. ‘Take your time.’
She toyed with a loose piece of thread on the armchair. ‘Well, I’ve already told the uniformed policeman everything I saw.’
Denning offered her a reassuring smile. ‘Would you mind going over it again, for us? It would be very helpful.’
She sat back in the chair, took a deep breath, then noisily exhaled. ‘I’d just made myself a coffee and was sitting down to watch the end of This Morning, when I heard shouting coming from outside. I thought it was kids messing around at first. But it didn’t sound like kids. They should have been at school anyway – it’s not the Easter holidays yet, is it?’ She looked blankly at the two men, then carried on. ‘I got up to see what the commotion was.’ She gave a little shudder. ‘Dr Cairns was lying on the ground and another man was kicking him, quite viciously. It was horrid. He must have been doing it for a good few seconds before he stopped. Then he just stood there, looking down at Dr Cairns and then he turned and ran off. I dialled 999 straight away. I thought about going out to see if Dr Cairns was OK, but I was frightened that man might come back.’
‘Which direction did he run?’ Denning asked.
She had to think for a second. ‘Towards Highbury Hill.’
‘So, south,’ Denning said, thinking aloud.
‘To the Tube station?’ Neeraj suggested.
‘Maybe…’ Denning looked at Joyce again. ‘Are you sure it was just the one man? There was no one else?’
‘Oh yes. There was only one.’
‘Can you describe him?’
She shook her head again. ‘No. I didn’t really get a good look at his face. Besides, he was wearing a jacket with the hood up.’
‘Please try,’ Denning prompted gently. ‘Anything you can remember would be helpful.’
She placed a finger against her mouth. ‘He wasn’t very tall. I think he was young. Well, he wasn’t old. I mean he ran quite fast, so he couldn’t have been old, could he?’
Denning looked at Neeraj who just shrugged. She wasn’t giving them much to work with. He suspected she was already trying to blot the memory from her mind.
‘Did he say anything?’ Denning asked. ‘The man who attacked Dr Cairns – did he speak to him during the attack? Or afterwards?’
‘No. Well…’ She pressed her finger firmly against her lips. ‘He didn’t speak, exactly…’
‘Go on,’ Denning prompted. ‘Anything you can remember will help us catch this man.’
She looked over at Denning. ‘He was crying.’
‘Crying?’ Neeraj looked like he thought he’d misheard her.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘After he’d stopped kicking Dr Cairns, when he was standing there, he turned his head for a fraction of a second, and I thought he looked like he was crying.’
‘So you did get a look at his face?’ Neeraj said.
Her brow wrinkled. ‘Pardon? Oh yes, well. Just for a second. I mean I don’t know if I’d recognise him again.’
Denning digested this information. It didn’t make a lot of sense, but then so much of what they dealt with didn’t make sense, at least not to a rational mind.
