The Victim Page 13

  The Detective

  Day leaned back in his chair, stretched, and yawned. He’d worked late the previous night helping Shields check out the list of Bentley’s recent clients. It was basic police work, something a detective inspector would normally delegate to junior officers, but he’d been happy to get his hands dirty.

  Between them, they’d been able to contact all six of the paying clients Bentley had advised in the two weeks before his death. They were all banking executives, earning big bucks and huge bonuses. Two had been out of the country at the time of Bentley’s murder, and the others had all provided alibis that he expected to check out.

  Of course, their wealth didn’t mean they weren’t capable of committing criminal acts. Day knew the reverse was true. Most of them would probably sell their grannies into the sex trade and have no qualms about it if they thought it made financial sense. You needed a ruthless mind-set to make the sort of money they pulled in.

  Shields had promised to make an early start on the four pro bono names on the list. The man they were hunting was cunning. Day doubted he’d give his real name and address when filling in the appointment form, but he’d been arrogant enough to commit his crimes on camera, and arrogance could bring downfall.

  The door of the office swung open, and Shields entered carrying a cardboard tray with two large coffees. She placed one on Day’s desk, tossed the tray in the trash can in the corner, and took a long swig of her drink.

  Day eyed her suspiciously. She’d never bought him a coffee before. “What’s this for?”

  “I thought you might need a caffeine boost after last night.”

  Day nodded, picked up the cup, sniffed the aroma, and took a sip. The coffee was exactly how he liked it: black, strong, and hot.

  “Also,” Shields said, “you’re not going to have time to get your own, because we’re heading out.”

  Day picked up on the excitement in her voice, put the coffee down, and stood up. “The pro bono list, you got something?”

  Shields nodded. “They all check out except for one. We have a name. Connor Norton. It could be false—the address he gave certainly is—but I called the warehouse where he said he’d been working. They confirmed they had a Connor Norton there briefly, and the description fits.”

  Thirty-five minutes later, the detectives turned in to a run-down east London industrial area and pulled up outside a detached, single-story, redbrick warehouse.

  They headed for a door to one side of the loading bay, helpfully marked with a sign reading Reception. Before they could knock, the door was opened by a rotund woman wearing a voluminous floral dress.

  “No, no, no,” she said, jabbing a plump forefinger accusingly at the unmarked police car. “Yer can’t park there. No way. Yer got to move it. Right now. Come on.”

  Day showed her his badge. “We’re investigating a serious crime and need to speak to the boss about a former employee.”

  The woman stood her ground, her frame filling the doorway, her hands resting defiantly on her ample hips. “Yer talking to the boss, and the boss says yer need to move that pile of rust away from the loading bay. We got a delivery due, and we’re going to need to get it unloaded.”

  Day took a half step back and assessed the woman. It was a cool spring day, but her face was red, her forehead glistening with sweat. The colorful dress flowed down to her bare shins, and on her feet, she wore black work boots. He looked at his sergeant and shrugged. Shields sighed, pulled the ignition keys from her pocket, and trudged back to the car.

  The woman grinned and waved at Day to follow her into the office. She sat on the only chair behind a small desk cluttered with paperwork, three empty cans of diet cola, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. The room smelled of sweat and cigarette smoke.

  The woman pointed at the door. “Shut that, will yer? Then tell me what this fuss is all about.”

  “Why don’t we keep the door open for now?” Day said. “It’s pretty stuffy in here. Let’s start with you telling us your name. When you say you’re the boss, do you mean manager or owner?”

  The woman glared up at him and wiped her broad forehead with the back of her hand. “Me name’s Kath Brook, and I mean what I say. I’m the boss. Inherited the place a few years back, and it’s doing fine, thanks very much. Better than when me dad was in charge. Can we get to the point here? I’ve got things to do.”

  “We have some questions about a former employee, a Connor Norton.”

  Brook’s gaze flicked to Shields, who by now was standing in the doorway, then back to Day. She screwed up her eyes, and her nose twitched as if she’d just detected a bad smell. “Oh, yeah, him. Only here a few days. Well, definitely no more than a couple of weeks.”

  Shields stepped forward and placed the e-fit and CCTV still of the suspect on the desk. “Is this him?”

  Brook leaned over and squinted at the pictures. “I think so,” she said. “He wasn’t too bad to look at, but we have different men working in the warehouse every day, and I’m terrible at putting names to faces.”

  Day waited, letting the silence weigh heavy in the air, before picking up the images and handing them back to Shields. “We’re going to a need a list of your employees, going back at least a month,” he said.

  Brook pulled open a drawer and grabbed an already opened packet of cigarettes. She pulled one out, slipped it between her lips, but didn’t light it. After a few seconds, she took the cigarette out and held it delicately between her thumb and forefinger.

  “I ain’t got a list that’s going to do you any good,” she said. “I run this place on casual labor. Buy up bankrupt stock. Footwear, lamps, chairs, all sorts. When it’s busy, they come in. When it’s quiet, they don’t. Mostly Poles and Romanians. It’s all legal like, but flexible.”

  Day wasn’t convinced, and he could see Shields wasn’t either. It didn’t sound very legal. “To tell you the truth, we’re not really interested in how you staff this place and how legal or illegal it is. We need you to help us out with an investigation. We know this Connor Norton worked here because it appears he sought legal advice about suing you for unfair dismissal. Claimed he was falsely accused of starting a fight and fired on the spot.”

  Brook snorted, throwing her head back so violently, she almost fell off the chair. “Yer got to be joking,” she said. “He lasted two weeks, that’s all. He seemed all right at first. Pretty smart, you know, efficient and quiet, kept his head down. Then one night, he lost it. Didn’t like being told what to do. That was his problem.”

  Brook put the cigarette back in the packet, opened the drawer, dropped it in, and slammed it shut. “Trying to give up,” she said. “It’s not going well.”

  “So, tell us what happened,” Shields said.

  Brook sighed and wiped her forehead again. “It was Karol, one of our Polish regulars. Very reliable. We paid him a bit more than the others to act as a sort of unofficial foreman. Help the new ones settle in, yer know. One day, we had a delivery of wooden dining chairs, and he asked this Norton to stack them at the back of the warehouse. When he went and checked an hour later, Norton had only shifted a handful of them, and Karol wasn’t happy. Told him to get his ass into gear. He was a bit blunt, I heard. Big mistake. Norton knocked him down and started throttling him. According to witnesses, he seemed strangely calm all the time he had his hands around Karol’s throat and stopped just before the man passed out. At first, Karol wanted to call the police, but I was told Norton had a quiet word with him and managed to change his mind. Don’t know what he said, but it must have been persuasive.”

  Day and Shields exchanged looks. “We’re going to need to speak to this Karol as soon as possible,” Day said.

  Brook shook her head. “Yer’ll have a hard job. He’s gone. Quit the day after the attack. Went back to Poland. Crying shame that. One of our best workers, Karol was.”

  It was
inconvenient, but Day knew the Polish authorities would cooperate and track the man down if his evidence was required. “We’re going to need all the paperwork you’ve got on Norton,” he said. “Address, bank account, national insurance number, the lot.”

  Brook shrugged. “Ain’t got nothing like that. No details at all. He wasn’t here long enough to warrant it. I paid him cash, didn’t I? We would’ve sorted out the necessary documents, done it all correct and proper if he’d stayed longer, but like I said, these people come and go.”

  “You’re saying you haven’t got his address?”

  “Not his address exactly,” Brook said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, some of the guys had an idea where he lived, I think. Well, they knew he had a place not far from here in Stratford. They used to laugh about it. Not to his face, obviously.”

  “Laugh about what?”

  “About him living in an apartment above a takeout. About him coming to work stinking of cooking oil and kebab meat. There can’t be that many kebab shops around, can there?”

  27

  Fight

  The Mastermind

  Norton looked at the pound coin in the palm of his hand and closed his fingers around it until he’d made a fist. Excitement fluttered in the pit of his stomach.

  Simplicity gives the game its power, he told himself. There must be no room for ambiguity. A flip of a coin was the perfect way to start. The player would have only two options, heads or tails. The coin decides. The game master executes.

  Norton slid the coin onto his thumbnail and flipped it high into the air. He held his breath as he watched it rise, then fall even faster, a spinning blur of light, until it hit the threadbare carpet, bouncing once before rolling to a standstill.

  He squatted down and stared at it. Tails it is, he thought. Life is a game of lies, and death is the only truth. Time to play.

  The Reporter

  Revell paid for the coffees and carried the tray to the corner table where Duffield sat checking the news headlines on her phone. He slid the cup over to his news editor. She put her phone down and nodded her thanks.

  “I suppose you’re going to put these down on your next lot of expenses?” she said.

  “You bet your life I am. That’s what expenses are for, isn’t it? I’m even thinking about treating myself to a chocolate muffin when we’ve finished our little chat.”

  Duffield scowled across the table. “Let’s make this quick and painless, shall we? I want to get back to the newsroom soon as possible. I’ve an editorial conference to prepare for.”

  Revell would have been happy meeting in the room they had used before, but this time, Duffield had insisted on a rendezvous outside the office. Convinced that traitors lurked in her newsroom, she didn’t want to risk the story being leaked to rival papers.

  When Revell had dared to suggest that maybe she was being paranoid, she’d glared at him and declared, “You can’t trust journalists to keep their mouths shut, believe me.”

  Duffield picked up a plastic spoon and stirred her coffee slowly. “I think you should go for it first thing tomorrow,” she said. “Do it like the police do, you know, surprise the nasty Mr. Norton before he’s had a chance to properly wake up. Take a snapper along with you, knock on the door, job done. I’ll tip off the police before you go in for the kill, and they’ll have him in handcuffs before you can say ‘broken nose.’”

  Revell sipped his coffee and shook his head. She made it sound easy, risk-free, but this kind of job was never simple. There was so much potential for things to go wrong.

  “I don’t know if that’s the best way to go about it,” he said. “Confronting someone like Norton on his doorstep might not be a sensible idea. I think I’d prefer to ambush him on the street when he leaves the apartment. He’ll be less likely to take a swing at me if there are witnesses around.”

  Duffield lifted the spoon again and tapped the side of the cup while she took a moment to think. A tightness in her jaw suggested to Revell that she’d already made up her mind and nothing he could say would sway her.

  “It’ll be so much better for us if it’s a doorstep job,” she said. “Then we can announce to the world that the Daily News tracked the beast down and led the hapless police right to his lair. We don’t want it to look like we accidentally stumbled on him in the street, do we? Obviously, I don’t expect you to try to get an in-depth interview, get him to describe how his traumatic childhood is the reason he turned into a full-blown scumbag. Catch him off guard, let the snapper snap away while you challenge Norton about the attack on Gem Golding. When he tells you to fuck off, then do exactly that.”

  She knows better than anybody that it’s never that simple, Revell thought. It never is. An alternative news angle flashed through his mind. The Daily News finds the attacker and the paper’s brave reporter is beaten to a pulp before the police arrive. Photographs of the previously fresh-faced journalist lying battered, bandaged, and semiconscious in a hospital bed would enhance the story no end. It was a win-win situation for Duffield.

  “This Norton character is clearly dangerous. On that basis, I think there’s a good chance that when we knock on his door, I could end up with a lot worse than a broken nose.”

  Duffield grabbed her phone off the table and studied the screen. “I’ve got to get back to the newsroom, pronto,” she said, standing up. “Take my advice and don’t overthink it. It’ll be fine. I have complete faith in your determination to do whatever is needed to get this story. You’ve done a surprisingly great job so far.”

  Revell studied her face for a hint of humor. He found none. “Are they supposed to be words of encouragement? If so, then I think you’d better start brushing up on your motivational skills. They definitely need some work.”

  Duffield dragged her chair to the side and stepped away from the table. “Remember this is an incredible opportunity for you to enhance your reputation as an investigative reporter,” she said. “Think of the byline, the kudos you’re going to earn. This is award-winning journalism, mark my words. I tell you what, just to be on the safe side, we’ll pair you up with the biggest, toughest, ugliest photographer we can find. The two of you can look after each other. Enjoy your cake.”

  Revell watched her walk away, her eyes fixed firmly on the screen of her phone. He wasn’t happy, but he knew that he had no choice. This was his story, potentially the biggest of his career so far, and there was no way he was going to hand it to anyone else. Even if it meant taking a beating.

  The Detective

  Day held his phone to his ear, his heart thumping. He couldn’t remember the last time the prospect of talking to his wife had raised his pulse. It wasn’t having to speak to her that worried him; it was what he had to tell her.

  She answered on the sixth ring. One word. “Elliot.”

  “Hello, Amy. Sorry to ring you so late. How are things with you?” Day knew he sounded lame and suspiciously friendly.

  This time, she responded with two words. “I’m good.”

  Day knew there was no point wasting time on small talk. He squeezed his eyes shut and went for it. “I’m phoning about tomorrow. I’m not going to be able to pick Tom up. I’m going to have to cancel, but I’ll have him next Saturday as usual.”

  He braced himself for the explosion of anger. It never came. Not a sound. The silence damned him more effectively than any words could.

  “Please tell Tom I’m sorry for the short notice and that I’ll make it up to him. I promise. I can’t take the weekend off because there’s too much going on at work right now. A big case, and I’m needed. Please tell Tom that it can’t be helped and that I’ll miss him.”

  More silence. Day wondered if his wife had simply put the phone down and walked away in disgust. Maybe she’s gone to fetch Tom, he thought. Having to break the news personally to his son would be humiliating.
Maybe he deserved a bit of humiliation.

  He tried again. “Are you still there? Could you tell Tom that for me? I’ll apologize and spoil him a bit when I see him next week.”

  Amy let out a long, loud breath. Here it comes, Day told himself. But he was wrong. His wife’s response was matter-of-fact, measured even.

  “I’ll tell him,” she said. “He’ll be disappointed, but he’ll get over it. He can spend the day with me and Rob instead. It’ll be nice. We’ll make sure he has a good time.”

  Day clenched his jaw at the mention of Rob. The mere thought of the three of them enjoying a day out together burned like bile in his throat.

  “Don’t forget to tell him I’m sorry, will you?”

  “I’ll tell him,” Amy said, ending the call without saying goodbye.

  Day took a beer from the fridge, walked over to the window, and took a long swig from the bottle. He stared out into the night. The streetlights were on, spraying their haze of sodium yellow. Day had come to hate this time of day. He desperately needed sleep, needed to keep his brain sharp, but going to bed this early would be futile.

  Before he’d left the station, he’d asked Shields to pay Gem Golding another visit. He wanted to reassure the poor woman that they were taking the case seriously. He checked his watch and considered calling his sergeant to say he’d meet her at Golding’s home. Instead, he downed the last of the beer and thought about getting another bottle.

  He pressed his face close to the windowpane and gazed up above the city. It was a cloudless night, but east London’s electric glow blurred the stars. Somewhere out there, Day told himself, under the same light-polluted sky, the man who had attacked Golding prowled the streets. They had some useful CCTV stills of him and a decent e-fit image, but so far, the few calls they’d had from members of the public had led nowhere.

  Day had dealt with a lot of violent, evil people over the years, but something about this suspect scared him. The sensible thing to do after the failed carjacking would have been for him to keep his head down, lie low, and stay out of trouble until the police gave up, then find a new victim to vent his rage on. It seemed clear to Day that the man they were hunting was doing exactly the opposite.