When we shot down The Cut, Guleed asked what was on at the Young Vic Theatre, but we went past too fast to see. I got on the Airwave and reported that we were less than five minutes out.
Much less than five – more like two – minutes later and we were pulling up outside the Cherry Tree Shelter. Surprisingly, this was housed in a beautiful 1920s art deco purpose-built garage, single-storey but high-roofed, with Bauhaus-style Crittall windows and white stucco-covered walls. It sat sandwiched between a bus depot and the backs of low-rise 1960s council housing. I was surprised it had survived Southwark’s great leap forward into gentrification.
‘It’s Grade II listed,’ said the man who opened the door for us. We hadn’t even had a chance to introduce ourselves – he must have spotted us admiring its lines while we waited outside. ‘It’s driving the developers mad – that’s how come we get to use it.’ He looked me and Guleed up and down. ‘You’re not developers, are you?’
‘Even worse, we’re police,’ I said, and we identified ourselves.
‘What is it this time?’ he asked.
‘We need to speak to Jacqueline Spencer-Talbot,’ said Guleed. ‘It’s very important.’
While she did this, I checked to see whether the Spanish Inquisition had tagged the garage door. Nothing – it was as unmarked as the pedestrian door. I was beginning to hope we’d got ahead of Francisca on this – maybe even Lesley, too.
The man, who introduced himself as Greg, finally let us in. Inside, it was not what either of us were expecting from a homeless shelter. However hard the volunteers work they usually reek of despair – and other things. Instead, the whitewashed brick walls of the ex-garage reflected daylight back from a skylight that ran the length of the building. A pool table and café tables and chairs were set amongst shrubs and dwarf trees set in planters and big wooden pots. The high roof was supported by square brick pillars with whitewashed cement facing. Hanging baskets full of flowers hung from cast-iron brackets.
‘This is the indoor garden,’ said Greg, who explained that they were a referral-only emergency night shelter. They took referrals from any London borough and provided, in the first instance, a place to stay the night and then immediate help.
‘Help with what?’ asked Guleed.
‘With whatever they need,’ said Greg.
The garden smelt the way fresh potpourri always promises but doesn’t. Although underneath there was Dettol, sadness and a hum – like somebody being tunelessly happy. Throwing-out time was 8 a.m. and clients weren’t allowed back in until the late afternoon, which meant, thankfully, that the shelter was largely empty.
‘Who was it?’ called a voice from further inside.
‘The police,’ said Greg.
‘Tell Sting we’re booked up for the night,’ said the voice.
‘No, the real police,’ said Greg.
We emerged into a canteen area with rectangular tables laid out in a grid. Next to it, separated by a serving counter, was a large, well-equipped kitchen. The sort my mum cleans in hotels and office cafeterias. A couple of people were doing just that, and another woman was sitting at one of the tables with a laptop and piles of folders spread around her. She was white, middle-aged, with long brown hair that was streaked with grey and hung down her back in a French plait. She wore an indigo blouse with silver flowers embroidered at the collar and cuffs. When she looked up as we approached, I recognised the round face, the widely spaced eyes and the long straight nose as belonging to the woman in the 1989 photograph. She looked better without the Lady Di haircut. The smile was ironic but not unfriendly.
‘I suppose another reunion concert was too much to ask for,’ she said.
While Guleed made the introductions, again, I opened the door at the back of the canteen and found a short narrow corridor blocked by a fire door at the end.
‘Excuse me,’ said Jacqueline Spencer-Talbot. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Is there a back door?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ said Greg, the ever-helpful, and he named the street it came out on.
I called Danni on my Airwave and told her where the door was. She and Nightingale would cover the back way in. When I joined Guleed at the table with Spencer-Talbot, I made sure to angle my chair so I could keep an eye on both the kitchen and the way we’d come in.
There were two people cleaning the kitchen – two white women who looked to be in their forties. Both were dressed in stretchy mum jeans, T-shirts and aprons – one pink and one blue. Both of them were making heavy weather of the surfaces, so I guessed they weren’t professionals. One, with brown hair and big specs, was having a go at the grill and the burners, while the other was buried head first in the cupboards under the sink. I tried to keep them and the indoor garden in view.
This bit of sensible paranoia was not lost on Spencer-Talbot.
‘Are you expecting someone?’ she asked.
‘Ms Spencer-Talbot,’ said Guleed. ‘Are you aware of the deaths of David Moore and Preston Carmichael?’
‘Preston’s dead?’
Spencer-Talbot seemed genuinely shocked. The media coverage of David Moore’s death had been muted due to the lack of sensationalism surrounding the case. Dr Walid’s theory was that the news media and their consumers unconsciously shied away from events that didn’t fall within the narrow band of their expectations. Shot by a jealous lover or stabbed by a hoody were narratives they could run with. Killed in an unspecified manner with no witnesses, no CCTV and no obvious motive probably piqued their curiosity, but would it get clicks or sell papers? More importantly, would it fit the news agenda their organisation worked to?
These days, journalists are mostly freelance and only crusade when they’re on the clock.
Preston Carmichael’s murder had been louder and splashier. That he’d been tortured (evil gangsters!), the body hadn’t been discovered for a week (societal breakdown!), and the fact he’d been semi-famous on YouTube (famous influencer!) meant his death got wide coverage. Even if most of it was bollocks.
But the news seemed to have passed Spencer-Talbot by. Too busy dealing with the immediate needs of her clients or wrapped up in her own little world?
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Guleed.
My Airwave squawked and I put the earpiece in and clicked back.
‘Uniform 523 and 525 are at the back,’ said Seawoll. ‘We’re setting up the perimeter now.’
The TSG had arrived and were in position.
Spencer-Talbot looked at Greg, who’d sat down on the chair next to hers. He took her hand and, comforted, she looked back at Guleed, who asked her when was the last time she’d had contact with Preston Carmichael.
‘Not since Manchester,’ she said. ‘Did you say David was dead?’
‘Also in suspicious circumstances,’ said Guleed – keeping it as neutral as she could. ‘We believe the cases are linked.’
I heard Danni’s voice in my earpiece.
‘There’s no Inquisition insignia on the back door either,’ she said.
‘Pull back and stand by,’ said Seawoll.
‘He phoned me,’ said Spencer-Talbot.
‘Who did?’
‘David Moore – only last Tuesday.’
According to Postmartin, the standard operating procedure of the Spanish Inquisition was to tool up to a town and promulgate an Edict of Grace which gave everyone a month to make a declaration of faith and grass up their neighbours. After that the inquisitors moved in and, acting as judge and jury, decided whether someone was an evil secret Jew, a heretic, or a Muslim. If they were found guilty most were taken away and burnt.