But she had stepped away. The challenge was over. His hand came out of his pocket, empty. He folded his arms.
‘I misspoke,’ he said.
Collins nodded.
‘I’ll make some tea,’ said Hari.
44
10.20 p.m.
IPS AT NIGHT was a quieter, more sedate place, but in the opinion of many old hands somehow at its most potent. Freed from any UK-centric news cycle, the rest of the world took centre stage. Europe may well be sleeping but the Americas were wide awake, buying, selling, consuming. Soon Tokyo, Mumbai and Beijing would join them and set their agendas for the day. Where they led, the rest of the world would follow.
On the way into Canary Wharf, grabbing the WiFi at successive stations, Tommi had messaged some thoughts to Sam, Sophie and Famie.
‘There’s not much time. We need to be on the same page. Questions for Leven. What do we know about Toby Howells? Might the crack have been a plant? Do we know the murder weapon? Was he in a gang or associated at all with gang activity? What journalist contacts did he have (if any?), what do the cops really think? Did he know Hari Roy? Will post replies here.’
Carol Leven had joined IPS at the same time as Tommi but instead of diversifying into economics, politics and the EU as he had done, she had stuck with crime. All of it. Domestic, violent, international, cyber, organized. If you needed trends, stats or leaky police officers, Carol Leven was a one-stop shop.
Tommi hailed her from across the newsroom, walked briskly to her desk.
‘I got your message,’ she said. ‘Why the interest in Howells?’ She was unsmiling, perfunctory. Five six, pale, unlined skin. Her eyes hadn’t left her screen.
‘Just a tip-off. Maybe the drugs were a plant,’ he said.
‘Meaning?’
He shrugged. ‘Meaning maybe he wasn’t killed for the usual shitty old reasons. Territory. Trade. Pride. Family. That kind of thing. And if I knew any more, Carol, I wouldn’t be here, talking to you.’
He stared at her, she stared at the screen.
‘These are the crime scene photos I’ve seen,’ she said. She clicked on two images, one showing a close-up of a bruised black face with cuts above both closed eyes and a broken nose. The other, with a wider angle, a lacerated neck and a knife-wound to the heart.
‘That’s very dead,’ Tommi muttered. ‘Weapon?’
‘A heavy knife. Not found, but the blade is maybe three centimetres wide.’
Tommi typed at speed.
‘And the crack?’
‘Small bag. Eighty, ninety pounds’ worth maybe.’
‘If he was trading, or just out of bounds, wouldn’t they have taken that? Why leave it?’
Carol shrugged. ‘Small fry. Not worth bothering with. Possibly.’
‘Or planted,’ said Tommi.
‘Agreed,’ said Carol, ‘or planted. Howells hasn’t had any gang contact that I can find. I’ve spoken to three contacts who know this patch, they each said they knew nothing about any hit and had never heard of Howells. He wasn’t on the police’s radar either.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Ambitious. Decent marks at his college, hard worker. Not a bad writer, read a couple of his pieces. I’ll send them to you.’ She hit some keys, looked up at Tommi for the first time. ‘It’s an odd one certainly. I hadn’t really focused on it till you messaged me. His girlfriend said he’d been away a lot recently. Said he had a commission. That he’d been excited. Had had a bit of money. And then he was dead. She’d explained it all to the police but they had the drugs angle to work on, so for them he was just another dead black druggie.’
‘You spoke to her?’
‘Just now.’
Tommi smiled. ‘You’re good.’
She returned to her screen, said nothing. He typed, then sent.
‘A commission,’ he said. ‘And they paid. That’s gotta be unusual. Who commissions a kid to write anything?’
‘No idea.’
‘Might the girlfriend know?’
‘I’ll send you her number. You can do the work.’
Tommi knew when he was dismissed. He began to put away his laptop. ‘Interested?’ he said.
‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘Not the same. It’s not neat and tidy if that’s what you mean.’
‘Is anything you do neat and tidy?’
‘Sometimes,’ she said. ‘But not often. Whisky?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Whisky,’ she repeated. She opened a drawer, inside which sat a square box of miniatures. Room for twelve, there were three missing. ‘For the journey home, Tommi. Benefits of the late shift. Take what you want, I’m trying to cut down. Why are you interested in Howells anyway? It’s not your beat.’
Tommi picked out a couple of the small bottles. ‘Tell you some time. It’s complicated.’ He pocketed the whisky. ‘While you’re logged in,’ he said, ‘any chance you could search for Howells in our system, just to see if anyone else has been interested in him?’
A clatter of keys. A ‘no results’ sign appeared.
‘Nah,’ she said, ‘no results’ showing again in its own window. ‘Bye, Tommi.’
He took the lift to the ground floor, pausing by the glass doors to make sure he’d sent everything that Carol Leven had given him. Files sent, answers sent, he checked the last tube times then walked the short distance to the station. He hesitated at the top of the escalator and messaged Howells’ girlfriend, introducing himself, apologizing for the direct contact and asking for a conversation in the morning. Then he walked swiftly down the escalator.
A fifty-minute journey, he spent the time getting his notes in order and drinking the whisky. Its battery running low, he stowed his laptop in his rucksack at King’s Cross, alighting twelve stops later at Cockfosters. The guards nodded their goodnights as he exited the ticket barrier, and Tommi was out. His walk home was a brisk ten minutes, past the BP garage and Trent Park cemetery. Aware of his computer bag and solitude, Tommi’s pace was brisk. The street was wide, well lit and, for nearly midnight, busy. Instinctively he walked close to the road.
Two cars at the garage, one
