Two checked, four to go. A breakfast first, though.
As they left the house, the woman thrust a bag of home-made cakes into their hands. They were sweet, more to Larry’s palate than Wendy’s, but they would finish off the breakfast nicely.
Chapter 7
An anonymous phone call to emergency services was regarded with suspicion – prank
calls still occurred, but not as much as in the past thanks to call identification technology and virtually everyone using a mobile phone.
Regardless, a patrol car had been dispatched to the address. Every call to 999 had to be followed up, documented and filed.
The house had long since been converted into small flats and bedsits, with paper-thin walls. It wasn’t their favourite part of London for the two officers assigned to check it out. It was, however, a place where people minded their own business – too many questions could lead to a physical beating or a brick through a window, even a car with four slashed tyres.
A police car was a prime target, so much so that one officer stayed with the vehicle, the other checked out the address. No point having to explain back at the station how the car came to have graffiti sprayed down both sides, and where the wiper blades were.
There should have been three police officers, but staff levels were down, and no one was that much interested in taking the phone call seriously. Across the railway line, on the other side of the road, loomed two circular gas towers, no longer in use, but not demolished. Behind them, although not visible from where the car was parked, the Grand Union Canal, still plied by houseboats.
Another one hundred and fifty yards, the murder site of the, as yet, unidentified woman.
Sergeant Connelly, a tall man, strong and broad, stayed with the vehicle. An ominous quietness in the area; he didn’t like it. And he certainly didn’t like the street. A couple of dogs scavenged on the other side of the road: unleashed, probably dumped by someone who didn’t want to feed them anymore, an unwanted Christmas present that had passed the cute stage. He’d let the authorities know but didn’t expect them to do much about it.
The two men had been a team for nearly two years. At first, it had been difficult, the plain-talking burly Connelly, a stream of expletives whenever he spoke, and Fahad Khan, a moderate Muslim who neither drank alcohol nor swore, although he’d light up a cigarette with Connelly, even share a joke with him.
Connelly would have admitted to being prejudiced against other religions, other people, especially after his brother had been close enough to a terrorist attack in Manchester to receive shrapnel to his upper body and lose an eye.
But Fahad Khan had won him over, assured him that he was as appalled as he was, and wasn’t that what they had had in Northern Ireland, religious intolerance.
Connelly wasn’t so sure that it was precisely the same, but he had to concede to Khan on that point. And then five months after they had teamed together, a car accident, petrol dripping down onto a hot exhaust, a woman inside screaming.
Connelly, brave and without thought, had opened the car door to let the woman out, struggled with the seat belt and the steering wheel that was pinning her down. The petrol igniting, the rear of the car aflame, unable to get the woman out, unable to leave her. He swore, as he always did, exerted himself to no avail. On the other side of the vehicle, with Connelly at his limit, just about to be forced back, his offsider scrambled into the car, releasing the seat belt, allowing Connelly to pull the woman out.
Five minutes later, the car interior was an inferno, and a crew from the nearest fire station were smothering the vehicle with foam. After that Connelly, with newfound respect, tempered his bad language, and during Ramadan, he’d make sure not to eat or smoke in his colleague’s presence.
Fahad Khan knocked on the door of the building. A smaller man than his offsider, he pushed against the front door; it opened with little trouble.
Inside, a downstairs flat. Upstairs three bedsits. He knew what the building was used for. That was one of the downsides of being a police officer: having to confront the seedier side of life.
Number 3 at the top of the stairs the caller had said before he hung up. A false alarm or not, no man wanted his name associated with prostitution.
At the top of the stairs, an open door. Khan took one look inside, saw clearly that it wasn’t a false alarm.
***
Isaac stood outside the room. He was wearing coveralls and shoe protectors. On his hands, nitrile gloves. It was a crime scene, and Gordon Windsor was adamant that no one unnecessary was allowed in the house. He commended Connelly and Khan on arrival, pleased that they had acted correctly and not contaminated the crime scene, other than Khan climbing the stairs, looking in the room; acceptable for an emergency call out.
Statistically, the area had a high probability that the emergency call was a false alarm; local kids pranking, nothing better to do, excited to see activity.
It was remarkable, Connelly thought, that after the body had been discovered, the street had filled again. Up the road, two women gossiping. A group of children, ages eight to ten, he guessed, trying to fix a bicycle. None of them could have known that a murder had been committed. It was as if they had sensed it, but then, it was a high crime area, a place where people learnt to mind their own business.
He knew that if he spoke to anyone in the street, he would only receive bland answers. Not
