“Not sure. I’m going to interview him again with Alice Madsen.”
“Huh?”
“He wants to apologise to her.”
“You know this guy Cole beat the crap out of the terrorist?” Gilmore made a noise like a snort. “Cole is violent.”
“Is there another connection between Madsen and the attack I don’t know about?”
Gilmore hesitated. “This is not from me, okay?”
“Okay.”
“They found a bag of Captagon in Madsen’s after the assault. That’s the same drug the terrorist was on when he did South Ken.”
“Interesting.”
“She claims it belonged to her assailant.”
“Supposing it was hers?”
“If we could prove that, she’d be back in a cell.”
Laura stared out the window of the van. The driver in the car alongside smiled at her and she looked away. “Who’s looking after this on the domestic end?”
“DS Meera Kapoor. Want her number?”
111
When Cole slammed his flat door shut the wall vibrated with the impact. He cursed Scully and Birdy. The last thing he needed was Scully turning up on his doorstep. The interview wasn't his finest hour either. Learning Mince and Scully drove a van into a crowd of Muslims had thrown him off. Made him lose concentration. Had he lied well enough? He never blurted out his true feelings, so he avoided total disaster. Fucking journalists. The only positive was the £400 plus in his pocket.
He took off his shirt and opted for a drink instead of a shower. As he walked around the kitchen, he realised a plan was as important as a drink. What the hell made Scully and Mince do it? Supposing the old bill connect him with Mince and Scully? Would they bash into his flat with truncheons? Would it be worse if Scully came banging on his door? Cole realised he needed to calm down and take time to think.
He stared out the kitchen window for several minutes. Then he gave up thinking, jerked the fridge door open and grabbed a can of beer. The ring top broke off when he pulled it. “For fuck’s sake,” he shouted. He plucked a knife from the drawer and stabbed the can. Beer froth bubbled over on the floor, and he brought the can to his mouth so as not to waste any. He took several large, yet awkward gulps through the narrow opening and belched with satisfaction. Then he poured the rest into a glass tumbler and went into the lounge.
He pulled out his phone and stared at it while he slumped on the couch. The notification light pulsed, and he saw he had a voice mail. His mouth opened as he listened. He cut it off after the introduction, then realised it was pointless, and he played it all the way through.
“This is a message for Lewis Cole from Detective Sergeant Kapoor from the Metropolitan Police. We’d like to ask you a few questions about the South Kensington attack. I appreciate you have already spoken with SO15, however, we need to follow up with something. It’s routine. Please call me to arrange a suitable time to talk.” She left her number and the message ended.
Were they on to him? If it was anything to do with Whitechapel, it would be the anti-terror lot, SO15, not the Met. But on that basis, why were the Met asking about South Ken? It didn't make sense. The old bill were devious bastards. This could be about Alice, and they were looking for a link with South Ken. But that was all they were doing. Looking. Fishing. He opened the app on his phone to see if the motion detector had recorded anyone at his door while he was out, but the only files showed his own movements and those of the Chinese girl from the flat above.
As he guzzled the beer, he told himself he was smart enough to solve any problems. In the worst case, the police would charge him with sexual assault and breaking and entering.
He had to assume the Captagon fell onto the floor in Alice’s bedroom. Thank Christ he had dropped the bag into her bathroom sink and then dried it. That should mean no fingerprints. In which case, the police couldn’t tie him to the pills. There should be no DNA evidence linking him to Alice’s bedroom either. Under no circumstances could he admit to viewing the house as the police would assume he copied the key. “Fuck’s sake,” he shouted as he remembered he still had the key. That needed to disappear.
Cole kept thinking. Besides the burner and the Captagon pills, and once he got shot of the key, nothing in the flat would link him to any crime. Thank fuck he’d had the sense to leave his regular phone at home that night. It might even give him an alibi. He’d deleted all the relevant apps and video files. The derelict building on Wilmot Street hid his bag with the knife and the rest of his gear.
The more he thought about the situation, the more confident he became. He could claim no involvement. Any half decent brief would see him safe. Scully and Mince were the sole potential problem. Would they talk? Then he remembered Scully’s tale of the grass inside and thought it was unlikely.
But he still wanted Alice Madsen. All he had to figure out was how to get her while avoiding the police. He thought it unlikely the police would watch her hotel room or her house. It wasn't as if Cole was a mass murderer or that Alice was aware she was in imminent danger. From what he’d read on the web, Cole reasoned the police wouldn't be on high alert over the Alice incident. Perhaps Mince and Scully had done him a favour, the police would concentrate on preventing a tit
