Cut to the Bone (24 page)

Kate sat down, her legs shaking.

The man was next caught on camera inside D block. He looked at them for a second, an involuntary stare, but not one that meant he was aware of his image being captured. He was caught side on, pressing for the lift. It came, and he disappeared inside.

The video spooled; it was a shot from inside the lift. It was looking down at the man, his face, the upturn of his nose, clearly seen. There was a timestamp on the CCTV at the bottom of the image, the seconds running along, the twenty-four-hour clock.

The next shot was in front of the lift. The man walked past the camera, turned left, and was caught walking to a flat on floor six, according to a sign on the side of a pillar. He knocked, looked around, went inside.

The picture cut again to the man leaving the flat, some hours later. He wasn’t walking in a straight line. In fact, Kate noticed, he wasn’t walking straight at all through any of the film. He looked as though he was dragging one of his legs behind him.

‘Why does he have that limp?’ she said.

‘He’s had it since childhood. An accident. Made him a target at school, suffered quite badly,’ said Rourke.

Was there accusation behind those words?

The last shot was of the man walking across the estate again. It was 9 a.m. According to the CCTV monitored by Lambeth Council, Dan Grant had spent the best part of the time Ruby disappeared at a flat on the Carsdale estate.

‘How did you get hold of this?’ said Kate.

‘Privileged sources,’ said Rourke.

Kate looked at him, and then stared back at the frozen face of Dan. Her case unravelling.

‘If this is where he was, why didn’t he tell us? Why didn’t he give up his alibi?’ said Kate.

Rourke couldn’t meet her gaze.

‘It’s fucking obvious,’ Zain said.

Chapter Seventy

The Carsdale estate was no less bleak in the daylight than it had appeared on the CCTV footage.

They passed a group of young men dressed in estate uniform: hooded tops, baseball caps, low-slung jeans, expensive trainers. They might have been the same gathering from the other night, or the same gathering that was a staple of these places.

Kate didn’t make eye contact for too long with any of them. They were a problem for another day.

‘This is why I parked outside Tesco’s,’ said Zain. ‘I have no problem handling myself, but my car isn’t going to be at risk from these dicks.’

They entered D Block, Kate looking up at the cameras placed high on the wall, secured with more than just cable wires. They had solid steel reinforced cages around them, the lenses popping out.

Inside she smelled what they couldn’t on the video footage. It was ingrained, familiar. Cigarette smoke, urine, beer, sweat, dirt, desperation and despair. More than anything else, poverty.

The lift doors creaked open slowly, then shut just as sluggishly. It took off, shaking, feeling like a bronchial attack on a treadmill.

‘I bet no one comes if we press the alarm on breakdown,’ said Zain.

The lift stopped, and the doors began their unhurried opening routine.

They walked along the same corridor Dan had on the video they’d seen, stopped outside the door he had entered. It was red, with the number D63 on it in hopeful gold metal symbols.

‘Do we knock?’ said Zain.

Kate rapped on the door. There was no answer. From inside, she could hear the thudding of loud music.

Zain checked the front windows, banged his fists against them. Someone lifted dirty yellow netting. A face peered out, mouthing, ‘What the fuck?’

Zain took out his badge, flattened it against the window. The face panicked, disappeared.

‘Is there a back way out?’ said Kate.

‘No, just a six-floor drop,’ he said.

‘And if you thought the cops were here and had something to hide?’

‘Ah, fuck this shit,’ said Zain, running back down the way they had come. He shouted back to Kate: ‘The idiot’s hanging out of the window, about to jump.’

Kate walked quickly to where he stood. It was a balcony by the lifts, offering them a view of the back windows to the flats. She could see the man half out of his window, looking down, calculating the drop, looking back at her.

‘It’s at least a forty-five foot drop,’ she said. ‘You really want to risk it?’

He turned black eyes towards her, spat out of the window. Calculating how long it would take to land on the grass?

‘We’re not here for you,’ she said. ‘We want to ask you some questions about Daniel Grant.’

The face creased in anger.

‘We don’t have a warrant; we won’t be searching your apartment. We just need to talk.’

The face was pensive, staring down at the grass. The man moved a fraction forward, building up courage. He glared at her, scanned his chances of survival. Spat again. Then disappeared back through the window.

The flat stunk of grease, fish and curry. The front room was bigger than Zain’s, he thought bitterly. How did someone on benefits get a better place than him?

‘What’s your name?’ said Zain.

He looked Somalian, or from some other part of North Africa. Dark skin, but delicate features.

‘Barry,’ he muttered.

‘Barry?’ said Zain. ‘Joker.’

‘Barry is just fine, for now,’ said Kate.

Zain shrugged, inspected the room. It was furnished with a single couch, orange, and a unit where the TV, DVD player, satellite box, and various games consoles were kept. The room was muggy with sweat and the distinct smell that young men manufactured. He felt his skin crawl, perched himself on the arm of the sofa. Kate was sitting on it. Zain saw stains on the material, didn’t want to take the risk.

Barry sat cross-legged on the floor. He was emaciated, his bony frame visible in joggers and T-shirt, both too big for him. Both emblazoned with ‘Moschino’.

‘Why you here?’ he said. ‘What you wanna know?’

It was a south London accent, the ghetto version, but identifiable.

‘We need to speak to you about Daniel Grant,’ said Kate.

‘Yeah, I know him. He’s good people.’

‘We believe you might be able to provide us with some vital information about his whereabouts, the day before yesterday,’ said Kate.

‘Don’t know nuttin’ ’bout dat. Saw it on da net. Dan ain’t no killer.’

‘How can you be sure?’ said Kate.

‘He got balls like a cockroach, tiny little coward balls. He don’t have it in him to be killin’ jack.’

‘You seen his balls?’ said Zain.

‘You got jokes? Naice,’ said Barry, spitting from the side of his mouth. Zain realised he had khat in his cheek, was chewing it while he spoke to them.

‘Barry, we have CCTV footage placing Mr Grant in your apartment from about 10 p.m. on Tuesday the tenth of November, until approximately 10 a.m. on the morning of Wednesday the eleventh of November.’

Barry gaped at them, a blank expression on his face.

‘What were you doing for those twelve hours?’ said Kate.

‘Nuttin’, he wasn’t here,’ said Barry.

‘We saw him enter and leave. Unless he jumped out the back, he didn’t leave your flat,’ said Zain. ‘So what were you doing? Checking out each other’s bollocks?’

‘You callin’ me a fag?’ said Barry, swearing at Zain in Arabic.

‘I prefer women to dogs,’ said Zain.

Barry blinked wildly, his pillow of confidence removed.

‘I have to make assumptions,’ said Zain. ‘Unless you say what went on here.’

Zain knew what was going on inside that tiny brain. He knew Dan had been here getting high, playing computer games. Barry was no supplier, though, just a user, a middleman. He was providing Dan with the drugs; someone else was Barry’s source.

‘We just chilled,’ said Barry.

‘Did you partake off any narcotics or stimulants?’ said Kate.

‘No drugs,’ said Barry. ‘I’m a good Muslim.’

Zain felt the immediate spike of red mist and rage. He felt himself go into tunnel-vision mode, Barry at the end of that dangerous lens.

‘If you were both here relaxing, then why is Dan so reluctant to let us know?’ said Kate.

Barry shrugged.

‘What did you talk about? What did you do, while together?’ said Kate.

‘This and dat. Played games, innit. Yeah, computer games, we played those,’ said Barry enthusiastically.

‘Again, why was Dan so reluctant to tell us this? There is nothing incriminating in anything you’ve told us,’ said Kate.

Barry shrugged. ‘Got nuttin’ else to say to you,’ he said. ‘You know where da door is.’

Zain felt the sensible side of him being pushed off a ledge. The other side took over. He knew it had happened. And he knew what was going to happen next would probably wreck his career. Still, he couldn’t stop.

Chapter Seventy-one

Kate only caught a blur of movement. Zain had jumped up from the arm of the sofa and grabbed Barry, pushing the frail figure against the wall. Suspending him five inches from the floor.

Zain had his hands carefully arranged, she observed. He had scrunched up Barry’s top, used it as leverage. It would mean no finger marks on his neck – bruising possibly, but no marks. And no skin-to-skin contact.

Harris was no raw recruit; she had to remember that. Two weeks in her team didn’t discount everything he had learned over the last few years.

Zain’s face was close to Barry’s, his teeth bared, spittle landing on the man’s face as he spoke. Barry’s skinny fingers tried to release Zain’s grip. Kate was torn between reprimand and an opportunity she fully recognised.

‘Now listen to me, Barry. You start by telling us your name. And then you tell us what you and Dan got up to. And then you don’t have your neck broken.’

Barry choked, kicked out, but Zain used his own body to pin the man’s legs back.

‘You see, I’m an expert at this. I won’t leave a mark on your body, and she won’t say a word. Us cops stick together. You understand? Nod if you understand.’

Barry did so. Even Kate felt herself nod, such was the intensity of the exchange.

‘Name,’ said Zain.

‘Abdu Basit Mahboob,’ he said.

‘Good boy,’ said Zain. ‘Now, what were you guys doing?’

Barry shut down until Zain yanked him further into the wall, which made him drop all attempts at concealment.

‘I don’t wanna go to no prison, please!’

‘You’re not in a position to negotiate, because you either tell me or you get hurt,’ said Zain.

‘Just Kaching and Blocaine.’

Legal highs, chemical stimulants, easily available.

‘So why was Dan so scared to tell us?’

‘I told him – he tell on me, I whack him,’ said Barry.

Zain let go of Barry, let him fall to the floor. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ he said. ‘You even think of what just happened again, let alone say it, and I will have you in a prison cell so quickly, your head will spin.’

‘Prison cell for what? You ain’t got fuck all on me. Dis is po-po harassment.’ Barry rubbed at his chest and neck, spitting, getting some confidence back.

‘Watch him,’ said Zain, leaving the room.

Barry got up to follow him, but Kate blocked him in the doorway. Zain came back within minutes, flinging a clear polythene bag at Barry’s head.

‘What the fuck is this? Baby powder? You lying little prick.’

‘Dat ain’t mine. You planted it, you cunting pig.’

‘Don’t fucking swear at me, you piece of shit,’ said Zain. He kicked Barry hard on the elbow. Barry howled in pain, scrabbling across the floor to get away from Zain.

‘Enough,’ said Kate, pushing Zain hard in the chest. He tried to get past her, but she held him off. ‘Get out of here. Now.’

‘Thank you for your time, Mr Mahboob,’ said Kate. ‘We will need a written statement from you, confirming what you just told us. That Mr Grant was here on the night in question.’

Barry turned black eyes on her.

‘If you play ball with us, I’ll overlook the class A drug possession with intent to supply, and the verbal assault on a police officer,’ she said.

The implication that he also needed to keep his mouth shut about what Zain had done to him came across loud and clear.

‘Save it,’ said Zain, when they were in his car, heading back to HQ.

Kate kept her rage under control, her voice neutral. Bit back the desire to do to Zain what he had done to Barry.

‘There was no cause,’ she said calmly. ‘He confirmed Dan’s alibi, that’s all we needed.’

‘Tells us what a scumbag Dan is, though, knowing about the drugs.’

‘It was illegal what you just did,’ she said. ‘Thanks to you, we can’t charge Barry for the cocaine. And slow down, for Christ’s sake.’

‘I don’t believe in respecting dicks like that. Fuck.’ He stopped the car, banged his hands on the steering wheel. Cars behind them beeped their horns. ‘Go fuck yourselves,’ Zain shouted out of the window. ‘Police!’ he added, when the verbal abuse started to come back.

‘Park up there. That’s an order,’ Kate said.

He glared at her; she held his gaze. He blinked first, shifted the car into gear and pulled over. Drivers gave them daggers as they went by; Kate waved at them in apology.

‘I don’t want a lecture,’ he said. ‘Either fire me or leave it.’

‘What happened back there?’ she said.

‘Does it matter? I fucked up, fine, but I got a result.’

‘Is it usual for you to lose control so quickly?’

‘I didn’t lose control. I just got sick of the prick. Him, Dan, Rourke. All of them. Ruby is dead; Millie is in metal splints. And these fuckers walk around unaffected, and there’s fuck all we can do about it.’

‘Why has Millie affected you so strongly?’ said Kate. ‘I almost feel as though she’s got a hold on you deeper than Ruby does. Ruby is our priority.’

‘I know that. But you didn’t hear what Millie said, the way she said it. He treated her like garbage.’

‘She knew what sort of risk she was placing herself in.’

‘Why? Because she’s a slut? A hooker? She doesn’t walk the streets. She’s not like that.’

‘Aren’t they just points on a scale?’

He punched the car door to his right, undid his seat belt.

‘What set you off back there, Harris? If you’re going to work with me, if you’re going to be part of my team, I need to know. Am I placing any of us at risk? If Brennan pushes a few too many buttons, or if Michelle does, will you strike out at them as well?’