Tell No Tales (19 page)

Not a flicker, not a single glimmer of awareness in his cool blue eyes.

Zigic wondered what could possibly be going through the man’s mind right now. Did he believe he could simply sit out the next twenty-four or forty-eight hours, play dumb, show them nothing, then get released? Was he that naive?

‘Maybe he’s deaf,’ Ferreira said.

His solicitor twisted in her seat, glanced at him. ‘Or he doesn’t speak English.’

Zigic frowned, tried to catch his eye. ‘
Jaka jest twoja nazwa?
’

Nothing. He tried a few words of Serbo-Croat, switched to Latvian, then Lithuanian, knowing his pronunciation was bad and his vocabulary severely limited, but all he wanted was a reaction, some small sign that they were getting through. Ferreira asked him the same simple question in Portuguese then French then German. He didn’t even look at her.

It seemed impossible he wouldn’t recognise any of the languages. They dealt with plenty of migrants and most had at least a smattering of English. Even the ones who didn’t attempted to make themselves understood, with mangled words or hand gestures, knowing they had rights and wanting to exercise them.

Regardless of his nationality, he had decided not to cooperate.

Zigic opened the slim cardboard file and brought out the crime-scene photographs, laid them out in a grid in front of the man. His eyes dropped and widened and the merest hint of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

Then Zigic took out the older photographs, Didi’s and Ali Manouf’s wrecked heads replacing that of their most recent victim, and as he spread them out he realised how the attacks had rendered the dead men indistinguishable from one another.

The smile was gone now but the man was still looking at the photographs, his fingers curling away from them.

‘You didn’t think we’d make the link?’ Zigic asked. ‘You were unlucky tonight, but you were stupid with Ali Manouf – that’s the man’s name – spitting on him. It’s almost like you wanted to get caught.’

His bodysuit rustled as he brought his hands together, folding one over the other.

Zigic removed the final photograph from the file; this one lifted from the CCTV camera on Castle Road, a black-clad figure giving a Nazi salute.

‘You wanted us to see this,’ he said, leaning across the table, the man meeting his eyes finally. ‘You’ve obviously got something you want to say. Now’s your chance.’

The silence stretched, five seconds, ten, with nothing but the sound of the clock ticking and the slight creak of boot leather as the guard at the door eased his weight from one foot to the other. The man pressed his lips together, blinked slowly, and Zigic could see the thoughts scudding behind his eyes now, unreadable but something was stirring in there, confession or denial he didn’t care, he just wanted to get the man talking.

A minute ticked past, then another, and Zigic felt the long evening weighing heavy on him, the beginning of a hangover conspiring with exhaustion and frustration, making his head throb. He bunched his fists and rested his chin on them, watching the man make his calculations, trying to decide if there was more to be gained by talking than remaining silent.

Abruptly the look in his eyes changed, like a switch being flipped, and they were blank again. He’d made his decision.

‘Anything?’ Zigic asked.

Nothing.

‘Maybe you just need a bit more time to think about it.’ He gestured to the guard. ‘Take him down to the cells.’

The PC called in his mate from the corridor and the two of them escorted the man out of the interview room, one on either side, hands around his upper arms. His solicitor followed them out and Zigic got up to stretch his legs, paced around the table while Ferreira gathered the photos into the file.

‘He can’t keep it up forever,’ she said. ‘You don’t do something like this unless you want attention.’

‘I was expecting a rant.’

‘He’s shocked he’s been caught, that’s all. Tomorrow morning, when it’s sunk in, then he’ll talk.’

Zigic hooked his hands around the back of his neck. ‘We don’t need him to.’

‘But you want him to.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘I just want to charge him,’ she said. ‘He talks or he doesn’t, what’s the difference? We know why he did it already.’

The interview-room door opened and Parr came in, excitement lighting up his face.

‘We’ve got something, sir.’

Zigic stopped pacing. ‘What?’

‘Two of the witnesses, the blokes from the house, the ones who tackled him.’ Parr was almost vibrating. ‘They saw someone else with him. He ran off when they came out.’

DAY THREE

24

‘
YOU NEED TO
get him talking,’ Riggott said, sitting in Zigic’s chair, leaning forward, fingers steepled, deep shadows under his eyes from the strip light. He’d shown up in his civvies, ten minutes before morning briefing, and gestured towards the office without a word.

‘What do you suggest?’ Zigic asked. ‘Take a phone book to his ribs?’

‘You can waterboard the piece of shite for all I care. We need him to give up his partner.’

‘He won’t even tell us own his name. He’s not going to come across.’

‘Persuade him.’

‘Persuasion requires a desired outcome,’ Zigic said. ‘And I don’t think we’ve got anything he wants. You talk to him, the man’s a rock. He’s not scared, he’s not interested in pushing his agenda.’

Riggott snorted. ‘Fucking agenda.’

‘Three murdered migrants,’ Zigic reminded him. ‘He’s politically motivated.’

Riggott swivelled in the enveloping leather chair, eyes roaming around the office, taking in the empty corkboards and stretches of beige wall pricked all over from old drawing pins, the greasy smears of long-removed Blu-tack which had seeped through the paint job. The only decoration Zigic had brought to the room were a few of Milan’s and Stefan’s drawings, stuck to the side of a filing cabinet with small black magnets, and a pair of framed photos on the desk.

‘It’s not very homely in here.’

‘It’s not meant to be,’ Zigic said.

He glanced through the window onto the main office, saw Ferreira arrive with a tray of takeout coffees and a handful of brown paper bags from McDonald’s, watched the rest of them cluster around her, everyone shattered-looking after only a few hours off. He’d sent them home at two, told them to be back by seven thirty. He’d snatched a couple of hours’ sleep on the sofa, woke up with Stefan poking his cheek, more tired than he was when he crashed out, fully clothed, too exhausted to even kick off his shoes. He hauled himself up, poured two double espressos on top of his hangover and showered in cold water to shake some energy loose.

Today should have been a relief. They had their murderer, the case should have been as good as over, nothing to do but organise the ample evidence against him and prepare the paperwork to send over to the CPS, but the presence of a second attacker changed everything.

‘We’ve got the culprit,’ Zigic said. ‘We’ll be able to charge him today.’

‘Aye, and that’ll buy you some breathing space,’ Riggott told him. ‘But you’ve two witnesses who know there was a second man at the scene and they won’t keep quiet about it. Not in a community like that.’

As if he didn’t know the stakes already.

‘We’ll get him,’ Zigic said, sounding more confident than he felt.

Riggott stood up, came round the desk, his body all sharp angles, mantis-like. ‘You wouldn’t have caught this one without the neighbours stepping in.’

‘We got lucky, I’d be the first person to admit that –’

‘And you won’t get lucky again.’ Riggott gave him a pointed look, grey eyes bloodshot, his own heavy Friday night stamped all over his face. ‘Best prepare yourself for a firestorm over this riot. Don’t need to tell you who the ACC’s going to send out as a baffle, do I?’

‘We contained it,’ Zigic said. ‘Under very difficult circumstances. Christ, it took almost half an hour to get reinforcements out. In the middle of town. We were given nothing, no support. It’s a miracle there were no serious injuries.’

Riggott stepped up closer. ‘That talk does not leave the office, you hear me, son?’

‘We weren’t the only people there. The ENL are going to use it for their own ends. There’s too much political capital in it for them to ignore.’

‘Let Nicola worry about killing their press,’ Riggott said, softening slightly, placing a hand on his shoulder; paternal, placating. ‘I’ve put word out this case is top priority – anything you need now, you’ve got it.’

Riggott strode out through Hate Crimes, pausing for the briefest words of encouragement before heading home to the rest of his weekend, the Saturday papers and a lazy brunch, a round of golf perhaps, a few pints down his local at lunchtime.

Zigic went over to the boards, the latest one holding more information than the other two put together, and it gave him a lift, knowing that as tough a task as they were facing, they were finally making progress.

He saw the same feeling on the rest of the team; beyond the tiredness and the dishevelled clothes, there was a sense of optimism. Grieves and Parr were laughing at some private joke, sharing a chocolate muffin broken into pieces on a flattened-out bag, while Wahlia and Ferreira stood close together near the window. That conversation didn’t look quite so light-hearted, Zigic realised, as Wahlia tapped her on the knuckles with a spoon, his thick brows drawing together as he frowned.

There was something going on but now wasn’t the time.

‘Alright, everyone, let’s get started.’

They returned to their desks, where last night’s abandoned tasks were waiting to be picked up again. Grieves had brought a couple of photographs in this morning he noticed, one of her boyfriend and one of her dog, stuck them to the front of her computer, making the space her own. If Riggott wanted to transfer her over permanently he wouldn’t argue; he’d been promised replacements for the two officers who had left almost three years ago, but budget restraints kept the desks empty.

Some good might come out of this mess at least.

‘OK, so in light of what we found out last night our main priority today is identifying the second man at the scene. He might have taken part in the assault, he might just have been observing, but if our witness statements are valid we have to assume he was involved.’

‘What about the earlier crimes?’ Grieves asked. ‘Do we think he might have been at them too?’

She didn’t put her hand up this time. She was getting settled.

‘That’s what I want you to look at, Deb. There’s no sign of him on the CCTV footage from those attacks but the coverage in New England is patchy at best and there’s a chance we might have missed him, especially as we were concentrating on tracking a lone figure. Go back through them, see if we’ve got two men around the area at the time.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘First thing though, I want you to concentrate on the footage from last night.’

‘But there aren’t any cameras on Cromwell Road,’ she said.

‘Try the footage online,’ Ferreira said, not looking up as she shredded a clump of tobacco between her fingertips. ‘There’s plenty of it already. Chances are he stuck around to see what happened to his mate, bask in the rage.’

‘There’s an office a few doors up,’ Zigic said, turning his attention back to Grieves. ‘They’ve got a camera on their entrance, you’ll need to get in touch with them. Mel, I want you to work on the amateur footage.’

She sealed her cigarette. ‘OK.’

‘Like you say, he probably stuck around and you know the local players better than Deb. Anyone who stands out, anyone sober probably, just see what looks wrong to you. They’re going to be all over the riot, so hit the forums when you’re done, see if anyone’s mouthing off.’ She pulled her keyboard towards her immediately, straightened in her seat. ‘Especially anyone who was actually at the scene.’

‘On it.’

Zigic pointed at Parr. ‘Witness statements, right? Pull everything from Didi’s and Ali Manouf’s murders, find the people who were closest and talk to them again. Take our man’s photo, see if anyone recognises him, or saw two men hanging around.’ Parr nodded. ‘And have both areas recanvassed. He probably reconnoitred before the attacks, maybe not alone.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Zigic turned to the map of the city centre, the murders plotted with red dots, close together. All three taking place within a quarter-mile radius.

‘There’s a chance he’s local to New England, so speak to the shopkeepers, do the pubs, the cafes. See if anyone knows anything about him. We’ve got clearance for all the uniforms we need. Make the most of them.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘OK. Quicker we do this the better chance we all have of getting some kind of weekend in.’ There were soft snorts of derision and Zigic smiled. ‘Didn’t think you’d fall for that.’

His mobile vibrated and he wrapped up the briefing as he brought it out of his pocket. Nicola Gilraye.

‘Ziggy, are you near a screen?’

‘Why?’

‘You’ve made the BBC again.’

He went into his office and opened up iPlayer, Gilraye still talking in his ear. ‘They’ve got your riot at number two in the running order. We need to get a statement out now.’

‘That’s your job, Nicola – what do you want me to do?’

‘Tell me something I can use.’

He watched the headlines play through, leading on Syria, a massacre in a village which had left dozens dead, shaky footage of bloodstains in the road and shot-marked buildings in the background. Then another segment filmed on a mobile phone – citizen journalism in action – Cromwell Road at the height of the violence.

‘Are you seeing this?’

‘I’m looking at it,’ he said, watching a bald man in a leather bomber jacket rush the cordon, head down, determined, until a baton struck his ribs and felled him. The camera panned left and caught a second man climbing onto the bonnet of a patrol car, the white-sheeted corpse visible at the edge of the shot. ‘We knew this was going to happen. Why aren’t you prepared already?’

Gilraye ignored his question. ‘Have you charged him yet?’

‘He’s not talking.’

‘I need more than “unnamed man in custody”. I’m fielding calls from all the majors here.’