‘Why did he do that?’
Anik shrugged. ‘It felt to him that there was some secret between Joyce and Anthony and Rodney, something that tied all three of them together.’
‘Did he talk about how things were before the fire?’
‘No, I tried but he wouldn’t talk about that. All he said was that after the fire Joyce’s brother was out of control and by that time Karen was back on drugs. He remembered that they were called by the hospital as near-relatives for Rodney as he had severe burns. Joyce refused to let him come and stay to recover and she never saw him again.’
‘But Harold remained in touch with him, because he collected him from Brixton and drove him back to his flat. Plus, he bought him a mobile.’
‘I asked him about that and he said that was the way he kept in touch, because Joyce wouldn’t let Rodney into their flat.’
‘Did you get a feeling that they blamed Rodney for the fire?’
‘Well, Harold said Joyce has always had the little girls’ photographs pinned up where she could see them. They are the first things she sees in the morning and the last thing she sees every night, but there are no photographs of Rodney; there used to a couple, but after the fire she tore them up, and she hated even hearing his name.’
They arrived at the station and made their way through the press, who were still hovering around the front entrance. It was almost 10 p.m. and they got straight down to typing up their report for Jack.
‘I’m going to give him a call to give him the headlines,’ Laura said.
‘Which are?’ Anik said.
‘That Abena Mensah was possibly murdered, either by Rodney or by his father, and Joyce knows it. That’s what binds them together. We have no proof, but I think Jack can still use it. In the meantime, we can continue checking into immigration and passport control, and if we still get no result, we should check out the house and garden where they used to live, the one before the fire, to see if her remains are there.’
‘Bloody hell, this just gets worse at every turn,’ Anik said, shaking his head.
‘Too right, and you know if Jack hadn’t been so diligent in investigating Middleton, he could have got away with it.’
After Laura’s call, Jack sat in his office and thought about how he would use the information. He had intended to be home earlier to spend time with Maggie, but as usual, he’d been so immersed in preparing for the interview, he’d not arrived back in time to even see her, let alone take her for a ride in the Tesla, as she had gone to bed to be up early for her morning shift. After a while he turned off the light and went to bed himself. Maggie had left a mug of hot milk on his bedside table, along with a sleeping tablet. He wanted to wake her and kiss her, but instead he just sipped the warm milk and took the sleeping tablet.
He was ready for the showdown.
Chapter Thirty
Jack had shaved and showered by 7.30 a.m. He had asked Maggie to show him how to use her makeup to cover his black eye and it now looked almost invisible, the swelling having gone down completely. He doused himself with cologne and chose a white shirt with a starched collar and cuffs, which Penny had ironed. He then picked out a tie, trying a few before he was satisfied, and put on a pair of his smartest trousers, with a good sharp crease, and lastly a pair of side-zip boots. He tried on a couple of jackets and eventually chose a good quality tweed he had purchased from a charity shop. He combed back his thick curly hair, using a little bit of gel. After checking in the wardrobe mirror, he reckoned he looked the business.
Collecting his briefcase from the office he found a note on it with a big red heart and a row of kisses, wishing him good luck. He was about to walk out when he remembered about booking a restaurant for dinner. He thought for a moment, then decided he’d try to get a table at the popular Firehouse as soon as it was open to take bookings.
He knew today he would need all his wits about him, and just driving in his new car made him feel more confident. The press were waiting outside the station, but Jack had called ahead for the gates to be open and ready for him to drive straight into the backyard. One of the morning’s newspapers had a new headline: Suspect in Hammersmith killings to be charged.
Waiting on his desk in the incident room was a fresh mug of coffee and the files he had requested, all neatly numbered with large, printed cards on the front of each. He double-checked the order and then stacked them in a cardboard box and placed them on his desk. He could feel the buzz in the incident room as everyone gathered, eagerly waiting for the prison wagon to arrive.
It was 9.40 a.m. when the call came in that the suspect was on his way in a closed prison wagon, with two bike outriders. Clarke suspected the press would have someone in a building opposite or in a place from where they could see the wagon enter the yard, so he had given instructions that the prisoner should have a blanket to cover his head and that they should move very quickly to get him out of the wagon and into the back entrance to the station.
Georgina Bamford was already at the station. She was dressed in an elegant two-piece suit with a white bow-necked shirt and black high-heels. Clarke thought her hair looked blonder than usual, and her makeup was a bit overdone, with glossy red lipstick to match her scarlet nail varnish. To complete the effect, she was wearing a chunky diamond ring, as well as a small diamond and gold chain on her slender wrist. Beneath her glossy exterior, however, she was not in a good mood, explaining to Clarke that since the Hammersmith Bridge had been closed, it took her twice as long to get anywhere from her house in Barnes.
Clarke waited until she’d finished. ‘I have one question before the interview,’ he said. ‘You received a telephone call from Amanda Dunn, even though you are not legally representing her, and—’
She interrupted him, clearly taken aback that the police knew about it.
‘She simply called me at home. It was a very short conversation, and I obviously made it clear to her that I was not representing her and that she should contact Mr Bukhari.’
Clarke smiled. ‘It was actually quite a lengthy call, Ms Bamford. Around fifteen minutes. I would appreciate it if you could tell me what you talked about.’
‘She wanted to get in touch with my client, saying she had a message for him.’
‘What was it?’
She shrugged.
‘She just said to tell my client that “he knows!” I have no idea what she was referring to and I then ended the call.’
‘I see.’ Clarke was about to continue, when he got the call to say that Middleton’s arrival was imminent. He guided Ms Bamford through the incident room and into the elevator to take her down to the interview room, while the other officers stole glances at this glamorous figure who looked dressed for a cocktail party rather than an interview with a murder suspect.
Jack was already in the interview room, his box of files set down beside him, and his notes and documents lined up on the table, along with bottles of water and a box of tissues. The sound engineer had already tested the microphones, camera and recorder, and there was a small monitor to show the CCTV footage. Everything was functioning perfectly and ready to be switched on.
As DCI Clarke had insisted, there were only a handful of people in the viewing room: Glenda and two CSI detectives who had worked on the case. Glenda watched approvingly as Jack stood by his chair, rocking gently back and forth on the balls of his feet. She thought he looked like a boxer getting himself psyched up for a fight. And, like everyone else, she couldn’t wait to see his opponent.