‘They could have been sleeping,’ said Mitch.
‘The Perrys are known racists. Kavanagh was a hate crime, this could be too,’ Lee said.
‘So… what? Noddy and Big Ears are on some cleanup-the-streets mission?’ Gill said.
‘One down, a million to go,’ said Janet, repeating Noel Perry’s sound bite.
Bragging or more than that?
‘Or they’re just dickheads,’ Rachel said, getting a laugh.
Gill’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the display, Dave, left it. ‘We have no formal proof of identity for Victor and Lydia?’ she asked, looking at Mitch.
‘No, but surnames used at the food bank are the same as those given when Lydia attended the walk-in clinic: Lydia Oluwaseyi and Victor Tosin.’
‘Refer to them as “known as” to be on the safe side,’ Gill said. ‘We don’t want some smart-arse defence lawyer down the line claiming that Lydia Oluwaseyi was actually Lydia Oluwa, and so the charges were inaccurate.’
Rachel nodded and Janet made a note in her book.
‘We are looking for Shirelle Young.’ Gill glanced over at Lee.
‘Not been back to the flat,’ he said.
‘Not with us crawling all over it,’ said Rachel.
‘Done a runner?’ Kevin said.
‘It’s possible,’ Gill said. ‘Local neighbourhood patrols will continue to be on the lookout. What have we got from house-to-house in the vicinity of the warehouse?’
‘Dead loss,’ Kevin said, ‘no one saw anything.’
‘Or they’re not willing to admit it,’ Rachel said.
‘The fire investigation officer tells me a fifth bullet has been recovered among the debris at the warehouse.’ Gill glanced at her watch. ‘Anything else? OK. Coffee run?’
Lee volunteered, raising his hand.
‘Double americano,’ Gill requested. She picked up her files and went to the office. Stretched to relieve some of the tension in her neck and shoulders. She checked her phone: missed call, no message. She was relieved Dave hadn’t left some rambling diatribe she’d have to listen to.
Gill thought of the phone call she had made earlier to Richard Kavanagh’s wife, now widow, who had not seen her husband for thirteen years but nevertheless was appalled and saddened by the manner of his death and the purported reason.
‘We have charged both men,’ Gill had told Judith Kavanagh, ‘and we have every expectation that they will be convicted as they have confessed to the crime.’
‘Why did they do it?’ Judith had said. ‘Was it a fight?’
More like an execution, Gill thought. The murder of Richard Kavanagh had not been carried out in the heat of a furious bust-up but as a calculated, cold-blooded killing of someone the men hated, simply because of his lifestyle.
‘Did they get into an argument?’ Judith went on. ‘Richard never argued. He used to walk away. He never even raised his voice. How many men can you say that about?’ She was talking too much; Gill recognized the behaviour – not ready for an answer to her question.
‘Mrs Kavanagh, I’m sorry to have to tell you that this is what we call a hate crime: when someone is targeted simply because of who they are, their identity, their membership of a group which the attacker hates.’
‘You mean like racists?’
‘Yes, exactly, but we also use this term for any group who can be singled out in this way, gay people or travellers for example,’ Gill said.
‘So what… because Richard was homeless?’ she said slowly.
‘Yes.’
‘I keep thinking about the fire-’
‘I can tell you that Richard was shot twice in the chest. He would have died very quickly from those injuries. He would not have been conscious when the fire was lit.’ Gill knew Rachel and Janet would have told her as much when they visited but it bore repeating – as often as was necessary.
Gill listened to the other woman breathe, heard her composing herself. ‘Thank you for letting me know,’ Mrs Kavanagh said eventually.
Now Gill wondered how on earth they might find the relatives of the young immigrants. Checks had confirmed no record of them entering the country legally, as asylum-seekers for example. With no dates of birth, no documents, it would be a long search. The Nigerian community in the UK might help get word out. Had they been sending money to their families? Immigrants often did, it could be a lifesaver for people back home. Or were Lydia and Victor orphans, or estranged from their families? Whoever they were, whatever they had done with their short lives, no one on earth deserved to die like that, shot then burned. No one deserved to die at the hand of another. Gill couldn’t do much to stop it happening but she would do her utmost to make those responsible pay.
She allowed herself a flush of pleasure at the thought of being able to solve all three murders and the prospect of taking Topsy and Turvy out of circulation for good.
Rachel’s phone went. She didn’t recognize the number. ‘DC Rachel Bailey,’ she answered.
‘It’s Liam Kelly, from the shop.’
‘Yes.’ The newsagent.
‘We’ve just found Shirelle in the alley outside, beaten up,’ he said. ‘You were asking about her. I’ve called an ambulance.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Rachel went to the boss. ‘Shirelle Young, beaten up at the shops. I’ll go see.’
‘Keep me posted,’ the boss said.
‘Yes.’ Rachel was already wondering if the beating related to the murders or the drug-dealing or if it was personal. Remembering the slightly built girl, her nerves as they had talked at the flat, the way she repeatedly looked to the door. Expecting trouble.
Shirelle was still there, on a stretcher in the back of the ambulance that had manoeuvred down the alley and stopped outside the back entrance of the newsagent’s.
Rachel identified herself to a uniformed officer and then spoke to the paramedics. ‘How is she?’
‘Battered. Respiration and circulation’s satisfactory. Concussed.’
‘Can I?’ Rachel nodded to the ambulance.
‘We’re going now.’
‘Two ticks,’ Rachel said.
She stepped up into the van. The girl’s face was a mess, swollen, one eye pulped, cuts across her cheek and a torn lip. Her white leather jacket scuffed and spotted with blood.
There’d be no talking to her until she was back in the land of the living.
Rachel recognized some of the group waiting in the alley, Liam Kelly and Mels from the newsagent’s and Connor Tandy. Connor presumably had no idea his father had been picked up and was mixed up in the murder inquiry. And Rachel knew she mustn’t give anything away or the search at the Tandys’ in the morning and the further questions for mother and son could go tits up. No sign of the chip-shop woman, though judging by the smell in the air they were still serving. Liam Kelly introduced her to Mrs Muhammad from Soapy Joe’s, whom Janet had spoken to, and her daughter Rabia, and in turn Rabia named her friend, Amina.
‘Can you all move back.’ Rachel assisted the uniformed officer to secure the area. It was hard to see if there was anything of interest in the dim light from the lamp post at the end of the passageway; people had probably already trampled over any evidence but it was still important to try to recover what they could.
‘Come down to our shop,’ Mrs Muhammad said, ‘there’s more room in there than yours,’ she gestured to Liam Kelly.
Mrs Muhammad led the way, skirting the cobbles where Shirelle had been lying, and going into the back of the launderette. She switched the alarm off and put the strip lights on.
‘How did you find her?’ Rachel asked Liam Kelly.
‘It was Mrs Muhammad,’ he said.
‘Rabia told me,’ the Asian woman said.
‘She was just lying there,’ the teenager explained, ‘when we were coming back through the alley.’
‘You were smoking,’ her mother interrupted, ‘you think I’m daft? I wasn’t born yesterday.’
‘Did she say anything?’ Rachel asked them.
‘No, she was unconscious,’ Rabia said.