Roberts glanced at the front door.
‘You got all that just from the letterbox?’
She nodded. ‘So will you,’ she said, waving the vape in the direction of the front door of number 26. ‘Weather like this, doesn’t take long.’
Roberts and Talbot exchanged glances then looked again at the house. Terraced, bay windows top and bottom. Exactly the same as the rest of the street. Short-term renters and lazy, disinterested landlords had produced houses that were sagging and cracking under the weight of prolonged neglect. Number 26 wasn’t the worst by any means – its front door was at least intact and not graffiti’d – but the front garden was scruffy and some of the weeds were a metre high. The downstairs curtains were drawn. All the downstairs windows were shut, one small upstairs bathroom window was a notch on its metal catch.
Roberts walked to the door, rang the bell, rattled the knocker, then bent to the letterbox. Talbot snapped at his heels. Roberts pushed the steel flap open, peered inside. He saw that the hall was clear. Saw that there was nothing of anything that could be seen anywhere. But the delivery woman was right. The stench hit you immediately, rolling through the small hole in the door like it was an open bi-fold. Roberts recoiled.
‘Jesus that’s bad.’
Talbot stepped in. Stooped, gagged, stepped away. The delivery woman, leaning against her van, called to them both.
‘Can I go? Do I sign anything?’
‘We have your details,’ called Roberts. ‘And thank you.’ He raised a hand to his cap, waved her away.
The two men stepped back from the door. Roberts radioed that they were on the scene and that they were going in.
‘You got an enforcer?’ he said.
Talbot shook his head.
Roberts pulled at each of the downstairs windows, fingers around the frames. All locked. He put on his gloves, unclipped his baton, then smashed it through the bay window.
74
‘WHERE’S MILNE?’
‘Twenty minutes away.’
‘He sent you ahead?’
‘We were closer.’
‘You know this is bullshit.’
‘They weren’t my words.’
‘No, they were your partner’s.’
Famie and Charlie were still on the bed, Hunter was on the plastic chair with the cushion, Espie stood behind her. Charlie’s face was streaked with tears, roughly wiped away with the top of her T-shirt.
‘Why isn’t it Milne arresting me?’ said Famie. ‘I’m surprised he’s letting women do his glamorous work for him.’
‘He thought you’d run,’ said Espie.
Famie had her head in her hands. ‘You’d better pray that there are no attacks today because you can bet that every news agency, every paper, every website, every news channel in the world will have details of your incompetence. How you were told. And how you did nothing.’
The words hit home. It may have been Famie who was under arrest for seven murders but it was the policewomen who were on the defensive. She looked between Hunter and Espie, watched the body language. The upturned eyes, the flick of the head, the nods of encouragement. Then it clicked. She understood why Espie had seemed the bolder of the two women. A junior PC declaring a current police operation ‘bullshit’ was a woman confident of her position in the power dynamic of the room. These women weren’t just partners, they were partners.
Famie thought she might have fifteen minutes.
‘What does your instinct tell you, DC Hunter?’ she said. ‘Do you think you’ve got the right person arrested here? Did I also kill Tommi Dara? You missed him in your list. Maybe that was one of my “underworld connections”.’
‘I was ordered to arrest you. I arrested you.’
‘Oh DC Hunter. Please. Fuck your orders! Just for once! I know I’m an annoying, cocky nightmare to deal with but for fifteen minutes, just indulge me. I’m under arrest, I know that. I’m not going anywhere. You’ve done your job. But let’s park Milne’s crappy theory for a second. Were there any more photos where this came from? Because if that’s the most recent close-up photo of Amal I assume all your colleagues have it? At least the ones in Coventry?’
Hunter and Espie looked blank. ‘That wouldn’t be our job,’ said Espie.
‘Could it become your job?’ said Famie. ‘Just briefly?’
The PC sighed. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘To answer your question,’ said Hunter, ‘we received the photo in the post.’
Famie frowned. ‘You “received” it?’
‘Milne got it. Passed it to me.’
‘Anonymous?’
Hunter spread her hands. Shrugged her shoulders.
‘That happen often?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘How cropped is it?’ said Charlie. ‘How many others in the original?’
‘Four or five as I remember,’ said Hunter. ‘Some kind of family event maybe.’
‘Do you have it?’
‘No.’
‘Can you get it?’ More glances between Hunter and Espie. ‘Please?’ said Famie. ‘Your boss will be here soon and it’ll be too late. Make the call.’
Hunter made the call. Two minutes later her phone buzzed. She selected the image, handed the phone to Famie. Charlie leant over. She tilted the phone, spinning the picture to a wide setting.
An outdoor shot. Summer. Eight people in the frame, in three rough lines. The Hussain brothers were sitting in chairs, an older man and woman to their left and right. Two bored teenagers sat in front of them, one clutching his phone to his chest. Two women stood behind Amal, both with half-smiles as though sharing a joke. One rested a hand on his shoulder. Striking, mid-thirties, black hair to her shoulders. Next to her, a taller, younger woman turned her face to the camera. Her head lowered slightly, maybe to deliver the punch line.
Famie tightened her grip on the phone. She heard the thudding of her blood again. Her fingers reached for the younger woman’s face, then enlarged it as far as it
