His carefully plotted and altogether irritating multicoloured outline in hand, DI Stewart had made assignments that morning and then began to micromanage every one of them in his inimitable fashion. He paced maddeningly round the room and when he wasn’t doing that, he was liaising with the Belgravia police. This consisted of demanding to know what progress they’d made on the attack on the superintendent’s wife. In the meantime, detectives in the incident room made reports and PCs typed them. Occasionally someone asked in a hushed voice, “Does anyone know how she is? Is there any word?”
The word was critical.
Nkata reckoned Barb Havers would know more, but she hadn’t put in an appearance so far. No one had made mention of this fact, so he’d concluded Barb was either still at the hospital, or on an assignment Stewart had given her earlier, or going her own way in things, in which case he wished she’d get in touch with him. He’d seen her briefly at the hospital on the previous night, but they hadn’t spoken more than to exchange a few terse words.
Now, Nkata tried to force his thoughts to travel in a productive direction. It seemed like days had passed since he’d last received an assignment. Making himself adhere to it was like swimming through refrigerated honey.
The list of dates for the MABIL meetings-helpfully provided by James Barty to demonstrate the extent to which his client Mr. Minshall was willing to cooperate with the police-covered the last six months. Using this list as a jumping-off point, Nkata had already spoken to Griffin Strong by telephone, and he had received the man’s meaningless assurance that he had been with his wife-never left her side and she would be the first to confirm that, Sergeant-whenever an alibi was called for. So Nkata had gone on to talk to Robbie Kilfoyle, who’d said he didn’t exactly keep records of what he did every night, which was little enough, since, besides watching the telly, all he ever did was drop by the Othello Bar for a pint and perhaps they could confirm that at the bar, although he doubted even they would be able to say when he’d been in and when he’d not. From there, Nkata had conversed with Neil Greenham’s solicitor, with Neil himself, and ultimately with Neil’s mother who said that her lad was a good lad and if he said he was with her whenever he said he was with her, then he was with her. As for Jack Veness, the Colossus receptionist declared that if his great-aunt, his mate, the Miller and Grindstone Pub, and the Indian take-away were not good enough to clear his name, then the cops could God damn arrest him and have done with it.
Nkata immediately discounted any alibi given by a relative, which consequently made Griffin Strong and Neil Greenham look good in the role of member of MABIL and serial killer. The problem for him was that both Jack Veness and Robbie Kilfoyle seemed to fit the profile far better. This made him in turn decide he needed to have a closer look at the profile document that had been provided for them weeks ago.
He was about to conduct a search for it in Lynley’s office when Mitchell Corsico turned up in the incident room, escorted there by a minion of Hillier’s whom Nkata recognised from their earlier press conferences together. Corsico and the minion had a word with John Stewart, at which point the minion left for points unknown and the journalist sauntered over to Nkata. He deposited himself on a chair near the desk where Nkata had been studying his notes.
“I got the word from my guv,” Corsico told him. “He’s axed the St. James direction. Sorry, Sergeant. You’re my next man.”
Nkata looked at him, frowning. “What? You crazy? After what’s happened?”
Corsico removed a small tape recorder from his jacket pocket, along with a notebook, which he flipped open. “I was set to do that forensic bloke next, the expert witness you lot have working outside the Yard? But the big cheeses over on Farringdon Street gave the project thumbs down. I’m back to you. Listen, I know you don’t like this, so I’m willing to compromise. I get inside to talk to your parents, I leave Harold Nkata out of the story. Sound like a deal to you?”
What it sounded like was a decision made by Hillier and his DPA cronies and passed along to Corsico, who’d probably already planted a bug in his editor’s ear about…what did they call it?…the natural angle that a story on Winston Nkata had. Human interest, they would describe it, without a thought where the last human interest tale had got them.
“No one’s talking to my mum and dad,” Nkata said. “No one’s putting their pictures in the paper. No one’s looking them up at home. No one’s getting inside their flat.”
Corsico made an adjustment to the volume on his tape recorder and nodded thoughtfully. “That does bring us to Harold then, doesn’t it? He shot that bloke in the back of the head, as I understand. Made him kneel at the edge of the pavement, then put the barrel of the gun to his skull.”
Nkata reached for the tape recorder. He dropped it onto the floor and slammed his foot into it.
“Hey!” Corsico cried. “I am not responsible-”
“You listen to me,” Nkata hissed. Several heads turned their way. Nkata ignored them. He said to Corsico, “You write your story. With or without me, I c’n see you’re set on doing it. But my brother’s part of it, my mum’s or my dad’s picture in that paper, one word ’bout Loughborough Estate…and I’m coming after you, unnerstan? And I ’xpect you know enough about me already to get what I mean.”
Corsico smiled, completely unfazed. It came to Nkata that this was the reaction the reporter had been seeking. He said, “Your speciality was the flick knife, as I understand it, Sergeant. You were what? Fifteen years old? Sixteen? Did a knife seem less traceable to you than…say…a pistol of the sort your brother used?”
Nkata wouldn’t take the bait this time. He got to his feet. “This isn’t going to be part of my day,” he told the reporter. He slid a pen into his jacket pocket, preparatory to heading for Lynley’s office to get back to what he’d intended to do.
Corsico got to his feet as well, perhaps with the intention of following. But that was when Dorothea Harriman came into the room, looked round for someone, and chose Nkata.
She said, “Is Detective Constable Havers-?”
“Not here,” Nkata said. “What’s wrong?”
Harriman gave a glance to Corsico before she took Nkata by the arm. She said meaningfully to the reporter, “If you don’t mind… Some things are personal,” and she waited until he retreated to the other side of the room. Then she said, “Simon St. James just phoned. The superintendent’s left the hospital. He’s meant to go home and rest, but Mr. St. James thinks he may head here at some point today. He’s not sure when.”
“He’s coming back to work?” Nkata couldn’t believe this was the case.
Harriman shook her head. “If he comes here, Mr. St. James thinks he’ll go to the assistant commissioner’s office. He thinks someone needs to…” She hesitated, her voice uncertain. She raised a hand to her lips and said in a more determined tone, “He thinks someone needs to be ready to look after him when he gets here, Detective Sergeant.”
BARBARA HAVERS cooled her heels in the interview room at the Holmes Street station while the solicitor serving the interests of Barry Minshall was rounded up. A sympathetic special constable in reception had taken one look at her and said, “Black or white?,” when she’d first entered the station. Now she sat with the coffee-white-in front of her, her hands curved round a mug that was shaped into the caricatured visage of the Prince of Wales.