3

The team was gathered, all solemn-faced, some perching on the desks next to computers or stacked files, others making use of the stools and chairs.

Banham walked in and cast his eyes around the room. He was pleased to see Colin Crowther, the young, ambitious cockney DC; he always requested him for his team. Crowther was in his late twenties, and only about five feet five, with a mass of curly dark hair. Either the young DC couldn’t find clothes small enough to fit his diminutive frame or he had no idea what size to buy. Alison Grainger had once told Banham she had seen Crowther purchasing clothes in a children’s shop. This morning the brown velvet sleeves of his jacket were turned over so many times he looked as if he was wearing rolls of carpet around his wrists. He had matched the jacket with a red shirt and a tie that looked like some leftover school uniform, in diagonal stripes of blue, green and red.

Banham really liked this tiny lad, who had a hit rate with women that even Johnny Depp would find hard to beat. The boy was hardworking and shrewd, and put in far more hours than his shifts demanded. He was the current favourite for promotion next time a sergeant’s post was available; though he wasn’t the most experienced detective on the team, he was by far the most streetwise. The son of a known villain, he had a lot of useful contacts and wasn’t afraid to use them. And Banham knew he could trust him with his life.

Next to Crowther sat DC Isabelle Walsh. She resembled a young Vivien Leigh, and attracted men like Crowther attracted women, at least until she opened her mouth. She was outspoken and vulgar, and had a knack of rubbing people up the wrong way.

She too was after promotion – but rumour had it that Isabelle Walsh had made it into CID on her back. She had been a beat copper until someone high up in CID took a shine to her. Two months later she was promoted into CID murder division. Banham didn’t care; to him it proved she would stop at nothing to further her career, and that meant she would get results. And apart from Alison Grainger, solving murders was all that interested him.

He stared at the photo of the murdered woman on the whiteboard. Her face was yellowed and bloated, her eyes covered in congealed, maggot-infested blood. The head hung at an angle, leaving the wide knife wound in her neck in clear view. A pair of rotting satin knickers had been forced into her open mouth, leaving a thin ribbon dangling from her lips like a child’s strand of liquorice.

Banham picked up the marker pen and wrote under the photo: UNNAMED FEMALE. AROUND MIDDLE-AGE. PROBABLY EASTERN EUROPEAN OR ASIAN.

The team sat silent, looking at him expectantly.

“Who is she?” he asked. “Someone’s mother? Someone’s wife?” He swallowed as his throat thickened with emotion. His own ghosts were never far from his mind. “Was she dead when she was put there? If so, where was she killed? Who is looking for her? Someone must be.”

He moved aside to give them all a clear view of the picture. Everyone stared in silence for a few seconds.

Banham looked round the room. “What do we have on the car?” he asked a middle-aged ginger-haired detective who was leaning against the wall with his notebook balanced on his bent knee.

Ginger Pete looked up. “Reported stolen twelve days ago in central London,” he said. “Uniform are checking CCTV around the area. We already know there was no congestion charge paid or due; that probably means it was stolen at night.”

“That’s something, I suppose. What about Missing Persons?”

“Being checked, guv.” This was Crowther. “She could have come in on a train. Nothing on HOLMES so far.”

Banham turned back to the board. He wrote WEAPON? by the side of the picture, then ITEM OF UNDERWEAR IN MOUTH?

He interlocked his fingers and rubbed his mouth thoughtfully, staring at the distorted features in the photograph. Did she feel the knife carving into her neck, he wondered. Did she have a husband? And would he feel the same as Banham, for the rest of his life? An image of his own wife, bludgeoned and dying, reaching out to help her baby daughter, jumped into his mind, and he wrenched his focus back to the woman in the picture.

Alison Grainger knew him well. Suddenly she was beside him, facing the room full of waiting detectives as he pulled himself together.

“Interesting that the car was reported missing in the middle of London,” she said. “How did it end up all the way out here? Why did she get in the car? She wasn’t a tom, not wearing chain store thermal knickers and a warm vest. I think she knew her killer.”

Alison looked across at Isabelle Walsh, challenging her with her eyes. The mention of knickers was a cue for one of her tasteless remarks, but Isabelle obviously got the message; she said nothing.

“OK, let’s start with the underwear,” Banham said, turning to face the room. “The red g-thing is down with Penny in forensics. The leather ribbon makes it quite distinctive.” He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I’m not an expert on women’s underwear, but Alison thinks that sort of fabric and design goes back twenty years, maybe the nineteen seventies or eighties. Modern g-strings only have a thin piece at the back.” He couldn’t look Alison in the eye. “Isn’t that what you said?” he asked the top of her head.

“That’s because more women wear trousers now,” Alison agreed.

“Some women don’t wear any knickers,” Isabelle announced, uncrossing her legs in her tight-fitting jeans. Crowther gave Isabelle a speculative look. She responded with a broad smile.

“You’re obviously an expert, Isabelle,” Banham said. “See if you can track down its origin, manufacturer, year, how many were made, all of that.”

“Guv.”

“I’m willing to help with that,” Crowther said loudly.

“Good.” Isabelle’s heavily painted mouth curved into a mocking smile. “You can model the knickers for us when they come back from forensics.”

“Maybe our killer has had them for twenty years,” Crowther said. “Or maybe they were the victim’s. She could have been a tom twenty years ago.”

“And maybe someone has been waiting all this time,” Banham added. “The question is, why?”

“Perhaps he’s been in prison?” Alison suggested.

Banham nodded. “Good thinking. Crowther, I think Isabelle can manage on her own. Check if anyone’s been released lately for a crime that could tie up.” He looked round the room. “Do we have anything else? Anything at all?”

No one said anything.

“OK. So if Crowther’s right and someone has kept those knickers for twenty years, she wasn’t a random victim; she was targeted. So once we find out who she is, we need to delve into her background. Where was she twenty years ago, and what was she doing?”

“She’d have been in her teens,” Alison said.

Banham nodded. “So where did she go to school? Did she go to college, perhaps? And were the knickers hers?”

“They might come from somewhere in Asia,” Crowther said. “She did, originally at least.”

“Guv?” One of the other detectives raised a hand. “What about the weapon?”

“Uniform are still going door to door where she was found,” Alison said.

“Better expand it,” Banham said. “Someone must have heard something. Put up an appeal board. Maybe a passing driver noticed something. Keep digging until you get something.”

PC Judy Gardener was on duty at the front desk in the station. She hurried in, carrying the beef and tomato sandwich she had made herself for lunch. Her usually large appetite had diminished; she was too worried about Kim to feel like eating. She brought the sandwich with her anyway; it was still lunchtime, and with an eight-hour shift ahead, she might well feel like it in an hour or two. She threw the Tupperware container under the counter and took over the paperwork from her colleague.

An hour later she was filling in forms for two young shoplifters when a middle-aged woman walked in.

“It’s about my dog,” she told Judy.

With a sigh the constable put down her pen and invited the woman to tell her what the problem was. It appeared she walked her dog on the same route every day; a couple of days ago the mutt had gone sniffing around under a bush in a long driveway and when the woman went to investigate she’d found a handbag.

“I was going to bring it in yesterday, but it was my day at the hospital and they kept me waiting even longer than usual. I’ll tell you what, though – the owner of that handbag is very lucky it was me who found it. Her wallet and credit cards are still in there, and there’s money in the purse, and a return ticket from St Pancras to Leicester, and house keys.”

Judy took the bag from the woman and opened it. The name on the credit card was Shaheen Hakhti-Watkins.

It took her a few seconds to compose herself. The woman was staring at her; she replaced the wallet in the bag and closed it, thanked her for being a good citizen and noted down her details. “Someone will be in touch,” she told her, and suppressed a smile as the woman straightened her shoulders proudly and marched towards the door.

Judy opened the bag again, and stood very still, staring back at Shaheen Hakhti smiling at her from the photograph in her hand.

An aroma of freshly brewed coffee mixed with stale cigarette smoke wafted through the ground floor of Olivia Stone’s enormous house. The five women were all in the sitting room, seated on the elegant chairs placed around the room, except Kim, who was in her favourite position curled up on the thick Turkish rug on the floor. The two onyx ashtrays on the stylish glass table overflowed with dog-ends. An empty wine bottle and a half-full bottle of gin stood beside them, surrounded by dirty glasses and clean coffee cups.

Katie Faye had just made fresh coffee. She poured a cup for Olivia, who had begun to slur her words. Katie wanted her to stay sober until they had finally sorted things out. Besides, if Kevin and Ianthe came home and told their dad that Olivia had been drunk, Ken would fly into one of his rages, and maybe even ban Olivia’s friends from the house. And whatever Olivia said – or mostly didn’t say – Katie knew she was terrified of his violent temper.

Susan sat up straight in a pale leather armchair, scribbling with a chewed biro in a tattered notebook. She took a sip of her third large gin and tonic; unlike Olivia she was still completely sober. “All agreed then, cockles?” she said, dotting the pen on the paper and looking round at the other four. Her almost white, badly-permed hair bobbed as she spoke.

Katie nodded.

“I’ll bell Brian when I get home,” Susan said. “If ’e can’t meet me till tomorrow, I’ll lock the money in me till overnight. I’ll be sure to get all the tapes off ’im and check they’re the right ones before I hand over the money.”

The girls murmured their agreement as Katie handed her the envelope. Susan pushed it into the pocket of her jeans. “Done and dusted then. End of a chapter. Thanks to Katie and Olivia, we can all move on.”

Olivia had wanted to tell the girls about Kenneth’s sudden attack of stinginess, but Katie had persuaded her to keep it between the two of them. She glanced at Olivia, but the other woman was staring at the carpet.

“And no thanks to Shaheen Hakhti-Watkins,” Kim said, waving her glass in the air.

Katie grimaced. “She isn’t one of us now. She doesn’t exist any more.”

“Shaheen who?” Theresa raised her glass, smiling sadly before putting it down and picking up one of her thin roll-up cigarettes and lighting it with a throwaway lighter.

“She could at least have let us know she wasn’t coming,” Kim said, wiggling her ankles nervously.

“She could have done loads of things, darlin’,” Susan replied dryly. “But she’s done fuck all in nineteen years.”

“But now it’s all over,” Katie said.

“We just need to get those videos back,” Olivia said, hardly slurring at all, “then it will be.”

“I still don’t understand why he did this.” Kim slipped off a shoe and wriggled her bare toes. “He knew we had every intention of helping him when he came out.”

“Don’t look at me,” Theresa said defensively. “He hasn’t been near since he got out of prison. I’m pretty annoyed with him, I can tell you.”

“We’re paying up,” Katie said, with a warning look in Olivia’s direction. “Let that be an end to it.”

“I suppose prison changes people,” Kim said thoughtfully. “And I suppose there’s Bernadette to look out for too.”

“I just wish we could turn the clock back,” Katie said, attempting to steer the conversation away from Brian’s motives.

“Don’t we all?” Susan agreed.

“We were young and stupid, and it was an accident,” Kim reasoned. “But we’ll always have to live with what we did.”

“What Shaheen did,” Katie corrected.

“What Shaheen didn’t did,” Olivia said loudly.

“If she did go to the police,” Susan said slowly, “I wouldn’t be responsible for my actions.”

“You’d have to get in line behind Ju-” Kim stopped with a gasp as she realised what she had almost said.

Too late. Katie looked at Olivia, then at Susan and Theresa and back at Kim. “You haven’t told Judy about this? Please don’t tell me you’ve told Judy that we killed Ahmed Abdullah?”

Kim turned away and closed her eyes.

“Kim?” Susan clenched her fists. “Kim, she’s a cop. They have a code of practice...”

“I haven’t, right?” Kim looked at the carpet.

“We have a pact going back nineteen years, to keep Ahmed’s death between ourselves.” Susan’s voice rose several tones. “Please don’t tell me you’ve broken your word.”

Kim fiddled nervously with the fringe of the rug. “No... I was only saying...”

The front door opened and slammed shut.

“Either Ken’s meeting finished early or it’s the kids,” Olivia said in a strained whisper.

Katie jumped up and grabbed the gin bottle from the table. “Say we’re having a meeting about a charity bazaar,” she said to the others, shutting the bottle in the drinks cabinet just as the door opened and Ianthe burst in.

“What’s for tea, Mum?” Ianthe asked rudely. “I’m starving.”

Olivia ignored her.

“Nothing,” Kevin answered from behind his sister. “Mum’s too pissed to get us any tea. So what’s new?”

If they knew the half of it, Katie thought. She picked up her handbag and took out her purse.

“Hello, Auntie Katie. How nice to see you,” she said pointedly to Ianthe.

“Hello, Auntie Katie. Hello, Mummy’s other friends,” Ianthe sing-songed back.

Katie handed Kevin a fifty pound note. He really had grown into the most handsome young man, she thought. “Let’s have takeaway for tea. Take Ianthe to the Chinese and get what you want. I’m staying too. Your mum and I will have garlic prawns and noodles. And get duck pancakes for your dad.”

Kevin snatched the fifty pound note. “No problem,” he said with a grin.

“Can we have McDonald’s instead?” Ianthe suggested.

“No,” Katie said firmly, looking at Olivia for support.

Olivia shrugged. “Whatever, eat cow’s arse for all I care.”

“She’s already had a burger for lunch,” Kevin said. “She’d eat them for breakfast and tea as well given half a chance.”

“No wonder your dad won’t allow them in the house,” Katie said, half-laughing. “We’ll have Chinese. Anyway, you like Singapore fried noodles.”

After they left the room, Katie started clearing the empties. Olivia sagged back in her chair with her eyes closed, and the other three gathered their things.

“Just let us all know when you’ve got the videos,” Katie she said to Susan. “I think we’d all like a hand in destroying them.”

Susan dropped her chewed biro into a red plastic handbag with a picture of a kitten on the front. “Will do.”

Kim buttoned up her long military style coat and Theresa packed her tobacco tin and cigarette papers in her backpack. As they were about to leave, Kim turned to Katie. “What about Shaheen?”

Katie looked at Olivia, still slumped in the chair. Olivia shrugged.

“She doesn’t exist,” Theresa said firmly, struggling to hold her backpack and the stuffed elephant Susan had given her for Bernadette.

“Shouldn’t we at least let her know we’ve given Brian the money?” Kim asked.

Olivia straightened up a little and shook her head. “No. There’s no video of her, and she’s already said she isn’t interested. There’s no need to contact her ever again. Once Brian has the money, it’s over.”

“Is it, though?” said Kim. “Are we sure there can’t still be a comeback for us?”

“Only if your Judy knows.” Susan looked closely at Kim’s face. “She’s a cop. You can never completely trust a cop.”

Katie watched as Kim struggled to school her expression. “You wouldn’t break our promise, Kim, would you?”

“Course she wouldn’t,” Olivia said. “After all we’ve all been through? Don’t be silly.”

“If you did tell Judy, it’ll never be over,” Susan said coldly.

“You just don’t like the police,” Kim snapped.

‘No, Kim. What I don’t like is a grass.”

Kim stumbled through the front door, pushing it almost closed in Susan’s face.

Susan caught it and set off after her. Katie put out a hand to stop her. “Let her go.”

Theresa and Olivia nodded in agreement.

Susan sighed. “Well, let’s just hope she ain’t that stupid.”

There are no secrets in a police station. When the woman with the dog came in, news of the body in the car boot had already reached the front desk.

Judy Gardener and Paul Banham had trained together at the Police Cadet College in Hendon, and had become good friends. She had been at his wedding, but after Diane’s murder and Banham’s transfer into CID, he had become withdrawn and something of a loner, so they lost touch.

Judy waited until the reception area was quiet before opening the handbag again. She knew what had to be done. She took out the mobile phone, scrolled down the address book and deleted Kim and her phone number from it. She checked the recent call history for the call they made to her two weeks ago, and deleted Kim’s name. It didn’t matter that her prints were on the bag or its contents; the woman had handed it to her on the front desk after all.

Then, heart beating heavily against her ribcage, she made her way along the corridor to the incident room.