'You know. Migrants. Asylum seekers. Keeping one step ahead of the authorities if they can.'
'It's my understanding she was here legally, a student visa.'
'Even so.'
'You don't sound too concerned.'
Daines shrugged. 'Bigger fish to fry, I'm afraid.'
'And, just to be clear, you had no idea that's where DI Kellogg had been the evening she was killed?'
Daines shook his head impatiently. 'I can't see it matters, but no. I thought I said.'
Karen got to her feet. 'There's nothing else you can think of that might be relevant?'
'No, I don't think so. Nothing. I'm sorry. If anything does occur to me, then of course…'
Karen gave him a perfunctory smile and turned towards the door.
'The investigation,' Daines said, 'you're making progress?'
'Oh, you know,' Karen said, 'slow but sure.'
'Good luck with it, anyway.' He was back to his computer before she'd left the room.
Outside, it was promising a better day. Karen walked on down the hill and took a seat outside the Playhouse cafe, opposite a concave sculpture in shiny metal that reflected large sections of sun and cloud. Other than a woman in an expensive-looking black suit, busily working her BlackBerry, she had the place to herself. When the waiter came out, she ordered an Americano with a little cold milk on the side, considered some kind of muffin or maybe a chocolate brownie-to die for, the waiter said, just this side of overfriendly and ever so slightly camp-but finally rejected both. The sight of herself in the mirror that morning, the beginnings of a tummy more obvious than she liked, enough to bring about restraint.
When the coffee came, she wished, as she sat there gazing at the metal sheen of sky, that she still smoked. A good few years now since she'd given up, and yet, on occasions like this, there was the same faint but insistent need, niggling away. The woman with the BlackBerry-some kind of marketing whiz from the conversation she'd just been having-chose that moment to light up and the nicotiney smell floated across, insidious, on the air.
Karen poured a little milk into her cup. No one, she thought, no man, at least, sent flowers to a woman who wasn't a close relative without there being some kind of sexual or, at least, romantic undertone. And Daines would be the kind of man who would have reckoned himself quite a player where women were concerned-the way he'd looked her over when she'd entered his office-not lecherous, exactly, but not disguising it either, his eyes gliding down from her breasts and back again, the beginnings of a smile playing at the edges of his mouth.
So had there been anything between himself and Lynn Kellogg? Not impossible, Lynn some little time into a relationship with a somewhat older, staider man. And, if so, did it matter? Matter as far as the investigation was concerned?
She couldn't immediately see how. Unless Resnick had found out and, jealous, taken matters into his own hands. Othello and Desdemona. Somehow she couldn't believe it.
She had the number of the DS she knew from the Met's Operation Trident on her mobile, and by some small miracle he answered straight off. 'Karen,' he said cheerily, 'long time no see.'
'I wonder if you could find your way to doing me a small favour.'
'One good turn, why not?'
She told him what she wanted.
'Yeah,' the DS said. 'I can do that. Make a few calls. We've got someone stationed out there more or less permanently. But how urgent we talkin' here?'
'Soon as you can?'
'Okay. I'll get back to you.'
Karen thanked him, promised to meet for a drink when she was back in London, and broke the connection.
'Can I get you anything else?' The waiter appeared at her shoulder.
Karen shook her head. 'Just the bill, thanks.'
She left the coins on the table.
If she remembered the layout correctly, it would take her only ten minutes or so to get to the Central Police Station on foot from where she was, a thought nagging her every inch of the way-two shootings, two attempts on the same person's life within what? A month? How much of a coincidence was that?
She bumped into Khan as she was entering the building. 'Anil, thought you were down in London.'
'So I was, boss. Drew a blank.'
'How d'you mean?'
'Went to the address, nobody there. Talked to the neighbours, one of them said they saw the man who lived there leaving two days back, some kind of duffel bag over his shoulder. Haven't seen him since.'
'And the woman?'
Khan shook his head.
'You don't think-'
'Inside the flat? I went round the local police station, one of the lads came back with me and forced a window. Nobody inside. A few signs the woman had been living there, but not much to say she still was. The man- Bucur-he left a pile of books, clothes-shaving gear, though, toothbrush, that had all gone.'
Karen breathed out slowly. 'All right, get what descriptions you can. Have them circulated-witnesses wanted for question-ing-you know the drill.'
'Right, boss.'
'Oh, and Anil-the man charged with Kelly Brent's murder, Williams, is it?'
'Lee Williams, yes.'
'Who interrogated him?'
'DI Resnick, I think. Catherine was with him part of the time. And Michaelson-or maybe it was Pike.'
'Thanks.'
It took the office manager scarcely any time to locate the tapes of the interview and a pair of headphones so that she could listen uninterrupted. Resnick had been thorough and methodical, forceful when necessary. Williams was adamant, the only reason he'd gone armed was his own protection, the word having come down that several of the St. Ann's gang would be carrying. What else was he supposed to do? And Kelly Brent? The bitch, she got what was coming to her, didn't she? Like all them black bitches. Got no respect. Not a hint of regret in his voice, not even any real sense of what he had done.
'The police officer,' Resnick said. 'She was shot, too.'
'Should've kept her nose out of it, shouldn't she?' Williams replied. 'That way she wouldn't've got hurt.'
Resnick had pressed the point a little, but it was obvious that Kelly Brent had been Williams's sole target. Lynn Kellogg had simply paid the price for doing her job and putting herself in harm's way.
Karen listened to the tape through to the end: other than the fact Kellogg was the victim in both instances, she could find nothing to link the two shootings.
Karen had only just returned the tapes when Mike Ramsden came looking for her, flourishing the morning paper, his face set in a scowl.
'You seen this?' he demanded, slapping his hand against the offending page. 'Kid stabbed to death in south London. Lewisham. Running fight along the high street with thirty or more involved. Kicked this one kid in the head and then stabbed him fourteen times. Fourteen fucking times.'
He dropped the paper onto the nearest desk.
'That girl who was shot a few days back, outside some bar in Leeds. Chatting up the wrong feller. Died last night. Never regained consciousness. It's in there, same paper, couple of lines at the bottom of page nine. Fucking country! Going out of fucking control!'
'Take a deep breath, Mike. Count to ten.'
'Okay, okay. It's just sometimes-'
'I know.'
'The whole bloody world seems to be going to hell in a handcart.'
'Meantime-'
'Meantime what, exactly?'
'Meantime we do our job as best we can.'
'You think it makes one scrap of difference?'
