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Wednesday – Maya (#ulink_f968da76-e00b-549e-93ac-2c119b94186a)
When I got home and closed the front door, relief surged through me. It wasn’t my brother’s photo in the hall that brought the tears, nor the suitcase I’d parked by the stairs when I arrived home in the early hours. It was that, all day, my attention and energy had been on the investigation when what I wanted was to be alone with my grief. Now, I finally had the chance to gather it up so I could feel close to Sabbir; to wade through all the conflicting emotions about how he’d died – and why.
In the kitchen, I lobbed my keys onto the worktop, followed by the soggy bag of chips I’d half-heartedly collected on the way home. In the cold air, the smell of malt vinegar wafted round the room and the greasy mass was unappealing. I flicked on the heating. Next to the kettle, the message light was flashing on the answerphone. Mum had probably forgotten I’d gone to Bangladesh for the funeral.
Through the patio doors, the light was reflecting on the canal water in the dark. When I was house-hunting, I’d had my heart set on this flat as it reminded me of Sylhet and our apartment there when we were growing up. I remembered how sometimes, when he’d been in a good mood, Dad would sit between Jasmina and me on our balcony there and read us the poems of Nazrul Islam. On those rare occasions, the two of us would lap up the crumbs of Dad’s attention, bask in his gentle optimism, oblivious to the stench of booze and tobacco on his breath, and the smell of women on his clothes and skin.
What I remembered most, though, was how yellow his fingertips were; the feel of his cracked, dry skin. And how much I’d loved his burnt-caramel voice.
I headed into the lounge. Last night’s array of mementos littered the coffee table, waiting to be stuck into the journal I’d bought from the market in Sylhet. The fire had destroyed most of Sabbir’s belongings so Jasmina and I had chosen what we wanted from the bits that were recovered. My eyes fell on the book of Michael Ondaatje poetry. He’d annotated it. On the plane home, I’d read every single poem and pored over all my brother’s notes, then wept in the darkness of the cabin. I’d learned more about Sabbir from those poems than all our conversations.
Sometimes the canal outside was soothing. Tonight, although the water was still, I felt it pressing in on me. Unable to shift Linda’s death from my mind, I kneeled in front of the wood burner. As I lay kindling on the bed of ash, my thoughts drifted back to the amalgam of conversations from earlier in the day. I was exhausted. A combination of jet lag, lack of sleep and not eating. I was contemplating having a bath when my mobile rang. It was Dougie.
‘Hey, how are you?’ We’d Skyped several times when I was in Bangladesh but, other than seeing him at the crime scene, I hadn’t had the chance to catch up with him since getting back. He was downstairs, so I buzzed him in and went to meet him at the door, pausing briefly to check my appearance in the mirror.
‘I was on my way home. Wanted to check you’re okay.’ He leaned over and his beard growth brushed my cheek as he gave me a kiss.
I drank in the smell I knew so well, and, for a moment, I longed to sink into his arms. ‘Shattered, but pleased to see you. Come in.’ I began walking away from the door. ‘I was going to call you.’
He followed me along the hall and into the kitchen. Pulled the overcoat off his large frame and draped it over a chair back.
‘Fancy a beer?’ I said.
‘If you’re having one.’
I took two bottles from the fridge and passed him one.
‘You’ve met the fast-track sergeant, then.’ He took a swig of beer.
‘Yeah.’ I sighed, irritated. ‘Briscall must’ve known about this for a while. Nice of him to mention it.’
Dougie’s bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘That man’s a prick.’ He strode over to the window and back. ‘Gather this Maguire bloke’s an Aussie? What’s he like? Have to say, he looks more Scottish than I do.’
‘He seems a good cop. Knows his stuff and he’s pretty sharp in the interview room. Briscall will never change. I had a lot of time to think when I was in Sylhet and I’m done with letting him wind me up. I joined the police to make a difference, and to help people like Sabbir. I’m fed up with Briscall side-tracking me with his petty crap.’
Dougie had one hand round his beer, the other in his pocket. He was taking in what I was saying. ‘How’s it going with the school and the Gibsons? It’s all over the media.’
‘No real leads. We’re waiting to interview two key witnesses. One’s under medical supervision, the other’s gone AWOL.’ I groaned with frustration. ‘We’re still puzzling over the Buddhist precepts. There are five of them. Why the killer has started with the second, we don’t know.’ The cold had reached my bones today and I needed to warm up. ‘Shall we go through? The stove’s on.’
In the lounge, Dougie sank into the sofa, his manner quiet and reflective.
‘As a murder method, what d’you reckon strangulation says about the killer?’
‘I’m not sure.’ He paused to think. ‘It’s quick and doesn’t require any weapons. Silent apart from victim protests. Excruciating agony for a few seconds, depending on the pressure, then the victim slips into unconsciousness. Death minutes after that. It’s certainly different from stabbings and shootings.’
I was nodding. ‘On training courses we’re continually told that murder methods are rarely random or coincidence, except in the heat of the moment. Whoever murdered Linda chose to strangle her, bind her wrists and leave a message by her body.’
Dougie was stroking his chin. Silent for a few moments. ‘It’s certainly symbolic. Whoever did it could’ve simply strangled her and left.’
The material that had been used to bind Linda’s wrists wasn’t expensive, but Dougie was right: for the killer to bother, it must symbolise something for them. And forethought had gone into what they had chosen to write. It wasn’t an impassioned scrawling of ‘BITCH’ across a mirror in red lipstick, for example.
‘The most logical explanation is that the two acts go together.’ I held my forearms the way Linda’s had been positioned. ‘The precept says, I abstain from taking the ungiven. If your wrists are tied, so are your hands.’
‘Bingo. You can work from there. Although, hang on.’ Dougie placed his beer on the coffee table. ‘Did you say there are five precepts? Do you think the killer’s started with the second precept because of its significance? Or do you suppose there’s been a murder before this one?’
Wednesday – Dan (#ulink_2a6ddcf2-4c02-5117-9dc5-85a3ddf7d57d)
The Skype ring tone danced around the small bedroom. ‘Pick up, pick up,’ Dan urged, as he pictured the early morning scene at home in Sydney: Aroona getting the girls ready for whichever club or friend they were going to today. It was nearly midnight and Dan was wide awake in his Stepney flat-share. Every cell in his body felt as though night-time had been and gone. He lay beneath his crumpled coat, shivering, longing for the unbearable heat of home.
On his phone the pixelated image solidified. ‘Daddee,’ came Kiara’s squeal through the ether, and the video clicked in. She had a huge grin on chubby cheeks, her face still full of sleep.
‘Hey, kiddo. How are you?’ Dan searched her features for tiny signs of change, drinking up their familiarity. ‘I really miss you guys.’
‘Is it cold there? Mum said you’ve got, like, minus twenty or something.’
Dan chuckled. Swallowed the lump in his throat. Her innocent exaggeration was refreshing. ‘Not quite. It is cold, though, and we’ve had a bit of snow.’ It was so good to hear her voice. ‘Did you go to the beach yesterday?’
Another face bombed the picture. Sharna. All soft curls and gappy teeth. ‘Snow? Take some photos.’ A gaping mouth loomed in, and she attempted to point at her gums. ‘The toof fairy came last night, Daddy.’
‘Is that right? What’d she bring?’
‘A new toofbrush.’
Both girls dissolved into giggles. It was a typical Aroona present.
Homesickness pinched at Dan. Being apart from his family and missing out on milk teeth and swimming lessons . . . He hoped they’d all be able to join him soon.
‘Mum’s coming,’ said Kiara. ‘I got burned today. I’m all scratchy.’ She rubbed at her neck and face as though needing to make her point.
He’d only been away four months. Living in Sydney, he was used to hearing an eclectic mix of accents, but the combination was different in East London. The familiar Aussie vernacular was comforting but sounded different from the way it normally did. More distinct.
Feet shuffled across the laminate of their apartment. Aroona peered over the top of the girls’ heads, her dark hair a contrast with Sharna’s blonde and Kiara’s red.
‘Hey,’ Aroona said. ‘How come you’re still up?’ She was holding a giant tub of mango yoghurt with a spoon in it, and in the background the TV was blaring out the weather in New South Wales.
‘Oh, you know. Wanted to speak to my girls.’ Around him, magnolia walls were devoid of home touches. On the floor beside his bed, the greasy KFC box reminded him how hungry he was. He brought his wife up to date with Maya’s return. ‘I’m still trying to find a proper apartment.’ He wanted to ask if she’d thought further on when she and the girls would join him, but didn’t want to upset the geniality of their conversation. Things were shifting for the Aboriginal communities and he knew how much Aroona cared about helping them. ‘I’ve heard about the tooth fairy. How did the swimming lessons go?’
In front of him the girls squirmed and giggled.
‘She did very well and —
Her reply was drowned out by a banging on the flimsy party wall of Dan’s room. ‘Trying to sleep here, mate!’ boomed the voice of the flatmate he’d heard but never met.
‘I’d better go,’ Dan hurried, irritation bubbling in his throat. ‘It’s late here. Speak soon, Okay?’
They waved and he cut the call.
Emptiness seeped back into the confines of his tiny room, silence back into the yawning space. And on his phone, from the background image, Aroona and the girls beamed at him.
Thursday – Maya (#ulink_64c36b8c-982a-5a6b-a9d0-ba10a5dc2dca)
During the night it had snowed and, when I left the flat at 7 a.m., a dusting of white crystals lay on the path by the canal and on the lock. It was as though the world at the water’s edge had been cleaned. From there, my walk to the car took me past the graffiti tags on the bridge at Ben Johnson Road, and the burned-out shell of a warehouse, with its blackened brickwork and boarded-up windows. Overhead, bulging black snow clouds hung over Mile End like baggy trousers.
All night I’d been unable to shift the idea that there may have been a murder before Linda’s. I’d emailed the team and asked Alexej to check all suspicious deaths from the last three months, involving calling cards or anything ritualistic.
I was soon in Stepney, outside the block of flats where the Allens lived; an ugly, seventies-built, three-storey building. Paint was flaking off tired metal windows. On both sides of the entrance the recent snow was melting on mud, and discarded fag butts were leaking brown into the white slush. I rang the buzzer. Nearby, a yellow crane was lowering a vast steel structure onto what used to be playing fields, and I had to raise my voice over the drone and beeping of the site JCBs.
‘I’m DI Rahman,’ I shouted into the intercom.
Roger Allen buzzed me in and met me at the door of his flat. Stale alcohol fumes wafted towards me. I recognised him from the staff photos but hadn’t absorbed quite how skinny he was. Speckled stubble growth clung to his face. Shirt tails trailed over his trousers and his jumper was lopsided.
‘Did you get the messages to contact us?’ It was more of an accusation than a question. ‘We came round here yesterday and rang several times.’
A startled look swept over his features. ‘Sorry. My wife did tell me. I’ve been . . .’ He broke off; looked over his shoulder into the flat and then back to me.
‘I assume you know that Linda Gibson was murdered yesterday?’ People who wasted police time really pushed my buttons. It was one of my most regular rants to the team.
Roger opened his mouth to speak and closed it, as if weighing up what to say. ‘Yes, I do. But I don’t know anything about it, I’m afraid.’
A draught was making its way down my collar. ‘May I come in?’ I gestured to the flat and moved towards the open door.
Roger glanced at his watch.
‘Got to be somewhere?’ My patience was withering.
He rubbed his balding head and stepped reluctantly back inside, gesturing for me to enter.
Down the hallway a television was blaring. There was something familiar about the output. In the hall, a holdall stood up against the wall and a man’s jacket hung on the bannisters. A pair of pink wellies nestled on the laminate next to an assortment of family shoes. The hall table was cluttered with toys and a toddler’s trike had been parked under the hall table. The smell of toast wafted out from the kitchen. So, he was in the middle of his breakfast – but why did he look like he’d spent the night on the sofa?
Roger led me into the lounge where the television was on.
Of course. It was the school video. I pointed at the source of the noise, and raised my voice over it. ‘Could you mute that?’
He scanned the room for the remote control and zapped the TV off.
‘Do you usually watch the school video before you go to work?’
He jutted his chin in defiance and slid the remote control onto the coffee table. ‘Course not. I was just checking something.’
‘Checking what?’
‘The . . . the sound.’
I stared at him in disbelief. ‘Alright to sit down?’ I perched on an armchair and took out my notepad. I needed to change tack; get Allen off the defensive. Attempting to make my tone of voice less impatient, I said, ‘An officer came round here yesterday afternoon. I called round on my way home last night. On both occasions your wife said you were out.’ I raised my voice at the end of the sentence, to imply the question rather than state it. He was a bright man. He knew what I wanted to know.
‘Yeah, I popped out for some fresh air.’ He cocked his head and stared at me.
‘Both times? Did you get the messages to call us urgently?’
‘I . . .’ He was standing in front of the fireplace, his attention fixed on his hands, pulling at them as if they were lumps of dough.
In that moment, I felt sorry for him. I tried to imagine this man, in his scruffy clothes, conducting management meetings at school, leading working parties and standing in front of assemblies. I changed the subject. ‘Who’s off on their travels?’
‘Eh?’ Roger’s eyes darted round the room.
‘The bag in the hall?’
‘Oh, that.’ He waved his hand in the air dismissively. ‘We haven’t put it away yet. A Christmas trip.’ He was fiddling with his wedding ring now, twisting it round his finger as though he were trying it on for size.
That was about as convincing as his account of why he’d been out when the police came round. I surveyed the room.
Family-worn furniture.
Drinks tables.
Several lamps.
Cheap sound system. Nothing out of the ordinary so far.
Large plasma screen. Telly clearly important to the Allen family.
Wait. ‘Do you normally clean your teeth in the living room?’
‘You what?’ He traced my glance to the toothbrush and tube of toothpaste on the table.
That was it. He’d just arrived home. His wife was out. And he’d been having breakfast. ‘Where have you been, Mr Allen?’
He reddened. ‘Nowhere,’ he snapped. ‘I told you, I wasn’t well.’ He paced the length of the room. Up. Down. Hands in his pockets.
I waited. Let his reply hang in the air, all the while fixing my gaze on him.
‘How did you get on with Mrs Gibson?’
His bored shrug came too quickly – more a nervous tic than a genuine I don’t know. ‘I was less of a fan of hers than lots of other people but I never wanted her dead.’ There was a weight to his quietly spoken words. ‘If you lot did your job properly, you’d find that there are a few people at the school who were keen to get Linda out of the picture.’
My voice came as quiet as an echo, eyes locked on his. ‘Like who?’
Thursday – Steve (#ulink_b3a5f4aa-925e-5192-91dc-043e26917b00)
Steve was still absorbing Lucy’s news as he walked to Mile End to catch the bus. She’d met someone. Why hadn’t she told him when he was in New York? At least then they could have discussed it. Giving a message to Jane was cowardly. He turned up the collar of his jacket. On the ground, blobs of rain were washing away the recent snow flurry.
At the bus stop, school kids elbowed and shoved their way onto the double-decker bus, before clattering upstairs to claim their position in the pecking order. Steve waited with the workers, the knackered mums with buggies, the pensioners and this week’s reject kids. On the ground floor, an élite group of boys stood in a huddle, too cool to bother with the scrum of the top deck, their voices barely broken and their hormones in a spiral. Steve watched them posture and prance as they sniffed round two girls from another school.
Still feeling delicate this morning, he cursed his decision to get the bus. Had he known he would be cooped up with so much perfume and giggling, he would have walked the mile to school and spared his senses the onslaught.
When he alighted the bus at Bow Road tube station, the cool air was a relief, like stepping into the shade on a summer’s day. Momentarily, it soothed his lungs and cheeks before starting to bite. It was not fully light, and traffic chugged along Mile End Road, headlights glaring, carrying jangly city dwellers and bulging haulage loads to their destinations.
On parts of broken pavement the rain had collected in dirty puddles. Beside the cash point in the station wall, Steve saw a homeless man sitting in a dirt-slicked sleeping bag. Only a piece of cardboard lay between him and the concrete slabs. Desperation clung to his hollowed cheeks. Lowered eyelids kept his eyes on the ground in front of him, as though he doubted life would ever be good again, and even looking people in the eye required too much energy. In his lap, out of his vision, lay a sign. ‘I hope spring comes soon,’ it said.
