With No One As Witness (9 page)

“Ex-convict, Jewel?” his mother would have said had he ever had the nerve to tell her about Yasmin. “What’n God’s name you thinking?”

But that was easy enough to answer. Thinking of her skin, Mum, and how it looks when a lamp shines against it. Thinking of her legs, which ought to be wrapped round a man who wants her. Thinking of her mouth and the curve of her bum and the way her breasts rise and fall when she’s angry. Tall she is, Mum. Tall to my tall. Good woman who made one very big mistake, which she’d paid for like she ought.

And anyway, Yasmin Edwards wasn’t really the point. Nor was she the target of duty. That was Daniel, who at nearly twelve could well be in the sights of a killer. Because who knew how their killer was choosing his victims? No one. And until they did know, how could he—Winston Nkata—walk away from giving a warning where it might be needed?

All that was required of him was to walk across the street, dodge a few cars in the wretched carpark, depend upon the security panel being broken, ring the bell for the lift, and knock on that door. He was fully capable of doing that.

And he was going to. Later, he swore that to himself. But just as he was about to lift his foot in step number one of however many it was going to take to get to Yasmin Edwards’ front door, the woman herself came along the pavement.

She wasn’t walking from the underground station as Nkata himself had done. Rather, she was coming from the opposite direction, from beyond the gardens at the bottom of Braganza Street where, from her little shop in Manor Place, she offered hope in the form of makeup, wigs, and makeovers to black women suffering from disorders of the body and the soul.

In reaction to seeing her, Nkata found himself fading back against the chain-link fence and into a pool of shadow. He hated himself the moment he did it, but he just couldn’t move forward as he ought to have done.

For her part, Yasmin Edwards walked steadily towards Doddington Grove Estate. She didn’t see him in the shadows, and that alone was reason to talk to her. Good-looking woman on the street alone in this neighbourhood after dark? Need to be cautious, Yas. Need to be on the lookout. Someone jump you…hurt you…rape you…rob you…? What’s Daniel going to do if his mum goes the way of his dad and dies on him?

But Nkata couldn’t say that. Not with Yasmin Edwards herself being the reason why Daniel’s father was dead. So he stayed in the shadows and he watched her, even as he felt the terrible shame of his breath going faster and his heart beating harder than it ought.

Yasmin moved forward along the pavement. He saw that her 101 plaits with their beaded ends were gone now, her hair close cropped and no longer making the soft chorus that he would otherwise have heard from where he stood. She shifted the carrier bags she held from one hand to the other, and she felt in the pocket of her jacket. He knew that she was seeking her keys. End of the day, a meal to be got for her boy, life going on.

She reached the carpark and crisscrossed through the ill-defined bays. At the lift, she punched the security code that would give her access, and then she punched the button to call it. She quickly disappeared within.

She came out again on the third floor and strode towards her door. When she put her key in its lock, it opened before she had a chance to unlock it. And there was Daniel, backlit by a shifting glow that would be coming from the television set. He took the carrier bags from his mother, but as he was about to move off, she stopped him. Hands on hips, she stood. Head cocked. Weight on one of her long, lithe legs. She said something and Daniel came back to her. He set the bags down and submitted to a hug. Just at the point when it looked like the hug was being only endured and not enjoyed, his own arms went round his mother’s waist. Then Yasmin kissed the top of his head.

After that, Daniel took the carrier bags inside and Yasmin followed him. She shut the door. A moment later, she appeared at the window which, Nkata knew, looked out from the sitting room. She reached for the curtains to shut them against the night, but before she did that, she stood for twenty seconds or so, gazing into the darkness, her expression set.

He was still in the shadows, but he could sense it, he could feel it: She hadn’t looked his way once, but Nkata could swear that Yasmin Edwards had known all along that he was there.

A DAY LATER, STEPHENSON DEACON AND THE DIRECTORATE of Public Affairs decided the time had ripened enough for the first press briefing. Assistant Commissioner Hillier, given the word from above, instructed Lynley to be there for the big event, with “our new detective sergeant” in tow. Lynley wanted to be there as little as Nkata, but he knew the wisdom of at least appearing to cooperate. He and the DS descended via the stairs to arrive promptly at the conference. They encountered Hillier in the corridor.

“Ready?” The AC spoke to Lynley and Nkata as he paused to examine his impressive head of grey hair in the glass cover of a notice board. Unlike the other two men, he looked pleased to be there and he seemed to be restraining himself from rubbing his hands in anticipation of the coming confrontation. Clearly, he expected the briefing to click along like the well-oiled machine it was designed to be.

He didn’t wait for a response to his question. Instead, he ducked into the room. They followed.

The print and broadcasting journalists had been relegated to the rows of seats fanning out before the dais. The television cameras were set to shoot over their heads. This would illustrate later for the public—via the nightly news—that the Met was making all possible efforts to keep the citizenry in the picture through an ostensibly open and welcoming venue for their human conduits of information.

Stephenson Deacon, the head of the Press Bureau, had himself chosen to make the prefatory remarks at this first briefing. His appearance not only signaled the importance of what was about to be announced, but it also telegraphed to the general public the appropriate level of police concern. Only the presence of the head of the DPA could have made a more impressive statement.

The newspapers had, of course, jumped upon the story of a body found on the top of a tomb in St. George’s Gardens, as anyone with a brain at New Scotland Yard had known they would. The reticence of the police at the crime scene, the arrival there of an officer from New Scotland Yard long before the removal of the body, the lapse of time between the body’s discovery and this press conference…All of it had whetted the appetite of the journalists and spoke of a much bigger story to come.

When Deacon turned the meeting over to him, Hillier played on this. He began with the larger purpose of the press conference, which was, he declared, “to make our young people aware of the dangers they face in the streets.” He went on to sketch out the crime under investigation, and just at the point at which anyone might have logically wondered why a briefing was being held to inform the media of a killing they’d already featured at the top of the news and on the first pages of their papers, he said, “At this juncture, we’re looking for witnesses to what appears to be a series of potentially related crimes against young men.”

It took less than five seconds for the word series to lead ineluctably to serial, at which point the reporters jumped aboard like commuters leaping on the night’s final train. Their questions erupted like pheasants from beaten bushes.

Lynley could see the pleasure in Hillier’s features as the reporters asked just the sort of questions that he and the Press Bureau had hoped they would ask, leaving unspoken the very topics that he and the Press Bureau had wished to avoid. Hillier held up a hand with an expression that communicated both his understanding and his tolerance of their outburst. He then went on to say precisely what he had planned to say, regardless of their questions.

The individual crimes, he explained, had initially been investigated by the murder squads most closely associated with the locations in which the bodies had been found. Doubtless their brother and sister journalists who were responsible for gathering the news at each of these relevant stations would be happy to supply the notes they themselves had already assembled on the killings, which would save everyone valuable time just now. For its part, the Met was going to press forward with a thorough investigation of this most recent murder, tying it to the others if there was a clear indication that the crimes were related. In the meantime, the Met’s immediate concern—as he’d already mentioned—was the safety of the young people who populated the streets, and it was crucial that the message get out to them at once: Adolescent boys appeared to be the target of one or more killers. They needed to be aware of that and take appropriate precautions when away from home.

Hillier then introduced the “two leading officers” in the investigation. Acting Detective Superintendent Thomas Lynley would be heading it and coordinating all previous investigations done by the local stations, he said. He would be assisted by Detective Sergeant Winston Nkata. No mention was made of DI John Stewart or anyone else.

There followed more questions, these about the composition, size, and strength of the squad, which Lynley answered. After that, Hillier deftly resumed control. He said, as if it had just crossed his mind, “While we’re on the subject of the constitution of the squad…,” and he went on to tell the journalists that he’d personally brought aboard forensic specialist Simon Allcourt-St. James, and to enhance his work and the work of the officers from the Met, a forensic psychologist—otherwise more commonly known as a profiler—would be contributing his services as well. For professional reasons, the profiler preferred to remain in the background, but suffice it to say that he had trained in the U.S. at Quantico, Virginia, home of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s profiling unit.

Hillier then drew the meeting to a practised close, telling the journalists that the Press Bureau would be offering them daily briefings. He switched off his mike and led Lynley and Nkata out of the room, leaving the reporters with Deacon, who signaled a minion to pass out the sheaves of additional information that had previously been determined suitable for media consumption.

In the corridor, Hillier gave a satisfied smile. “Time bought,” he said. “See that you use it well.” His attention then went to a man who was waiting nearby in the company of Hillier’s secretary, a visitor’s badge pinned to his baggy green cardigan. Hillier said to him, “Ah. Excellent. You’ve arrived already,” and he set about making the introductions. This was Hamish Robson, he told Lynley and Nkata, the clinical and forensic psychologist he’d just been speaking about to the journalists. Otherwise employed at the Fischer Psychiatric Hospital for the Criminally Insane in Dagenham, Dr. Robson had kindly agreed to be of assistance by joining Lynley’s murder squad.

Lynley felt his spine stiffen. He realised he’d been blindsided yet again, having erroneously assumed during the press conference that Hillier had been lying through his teeth about an unnamed forensic psychologist. He went through the motions of shaking Dr. Robson’s hand, however, while he said to Hillier, “If we could have a word, sir,” in as agreeable a voice as he could manage.

Hillier made much of glancing at his watch. He made even more of telling Lynley that the deputy commissioner was waiting for a report on the conference they’d only just concluded.

Lynley said, “This will take less than five minutes and I consider it essential,” adding the word sir as a deliberate afterthought whose tone and meaning Hillier could not avoid comprehending.

“Very well,” Hillier said. “Hamish, if you’ll excuse us…? DS Nkata will show you where the incident room—”

“I’ll need Winston for the moment,” Lynley said, not because this was strictly the truth but because somewhere along the line he knew he was going to have to drive home to Hillier the point that the assistant commissioner of police was not running the investigation.

There was a tight little silence during which Hillier appeared to be evaluating Lynley for his level of insubordination. He finally said, “Hamish, if you’ll wait here for a moment,” and he ushered Lynley and Nkata not to an office, not to the stairs, not to the lift to take them above to his own quarters, but into the men’s toilet where he told a uniformed constable in the act of emptying his bladder to vacate the premises and stand before the door, allowing no one to enter.

Before Lynley could speak, Hillier said pleasantly, “Don’t do that again, please. If you do, you’ll find yourself back in uniform so fast that you’ll wonder who zipped your trousers.”

Seeing what the temperature of this conversation was likely to become despite Hillier’s momentarily affable tone, Lynley said to Nkata, “Winston, would you leave us, please? Sir David and I need to have some words I’d prefer you not hear. Go back to the incident room and see where Havers has got to with Missing Persons, particularly with the one that looks like a possibility.”

Nkata nodded. He didn’t ask if he was meant to take Hamish Robson with him as previously ordered by Hillier. Instead, he looked glad of the command that gave him the opportunity to demonstrate where his loyalties lay.

When he was gone, Hillier was the one to speak. “You’re out of order.”

“With due respect,” Lynley returned, although he felt little enough of it, “I believe you are.”

“How dare you—”

“Sir, I’ll bring you up to the minute daily,” Lynley said patiently. “I’ll face the television cameras if you like and sit at your side and force DS Nkata to do the same. But I’m not going to hand over the direction of this investigation to you. You need to stay out of it. That’s the only way this is going to work.”

“Do you want to be up for review? Believe me, that can be arranged.”

“If you need to do it, you’ll have to do it,” Lynley replied. “But, sir, you’ve got to see that at the end of the day, there has to be only one of us heading this inquiry. If you want to be that person, then be him and have done with pretending I’m in charge. But if you want me to be that person, you’re going to have to back off. You’ve blindsided me twice now, and I don’t want a third surprise.”