‘Nobody sleeps any more, Stan,’ I said.
Scout was spending a couple of nights at Mia’s, an extended sleepover that was only possible during her long summer break, so after I had walked and fed the dog I waited for Mrs Murphy to arrive and then headed off for work hours before I really needed to. There was no sound from Jackson’s room.
MIR-1 was empty when I arrived at West End Central carrying a triple espresso from the Bar Italia on Frith Street, Soho. As sometimes happened when I had not slept well, I could feel my old injuries coming back, reminders of ancient pain that my grandmother would have called ‘playing up’.
There was a three-inch scar on my stomach where a man who was now dead had stuck his knife.
There was the lower part of my ribcage on the right-hand side where I had torn my internal intercostal muscles – the muscles that let you breathe – when I had fallen through a table. And there were assorted knocks that I had picked up in the gym, trying to be a tough guy.
They all hurt today.
So I took off the jacket of the suit that I had got married in and got down on the floor of MIR-1 to do some stretching. It was the only thing that made all that old bone-deep pain go away. I had learned the moves watching Stan. He did them every time he got up.
I settled in a neutral position on my hands and knees and then curved my spine, raising my head as I pushed back my shoulders. Just like Stan. And then the other way round, arching my back and trying to make my chin touch my navel. Just like Stan. I breathed out, feeling better already, and settled for a moment on my hands and knees before straightening my arms and legs and pushing my butt into the air. And that is the position I was in when I saw Tara Jones watching me from the doorway of MIR-1.
‘You do yoga?’ she said. ‘I’m impressed.’
I got to my feet, my face burning. ‘What? Yoga? No! These are just some moves that Stan taught me.’
‘Stan’s your yoga teacher? He’s good.’
‘Stan’s my dog.’
She came into the room and went to her workstation.
‘Why are you in so early?’ I said, and when she turned to look at me we both realised that she had not heard me.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Sometimes I forget.’
She was plugging her laptop into the workstation’s computer.
She looked at my face. ‘You forget I’m deaf?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s no reason to remember. My condition doesn’t define me. It’s a difficulty not a disability. My parents were told, “Your baby girl can have a disability or a difficulty. It’s up to you.” They treated it as a difficulty rather than a disability. And so do I.’
‘I don’t mean to offend you.’
‘It’s fine that you forget. You don’t offend me.’
She waited for me to speak.
‘I just wondered why you are here so early.’
The hint of a smile. She pushed the hair out of her face.
‘I didn’t mean to disturb your yoga session, Detective.’
I laughed uneasily. ‘I don’t do yoga.’
‘Oh yes, you do,’ she insisted. ‘And so does your dog. Stan? Even if you don’t know it.’ She powered up her machine. ‘Two things. I’ve been running biometrics on the most recent film. The background sound is building work. I know, I know – all of London is a building site. But this is not the sound of someone having a loft conversion or a new conservatory put in. This is heavy machinery, a hundred and fifty feet below ground. That’s a major skyscraper going up. That narrows it down, doesn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘What’s the other thing?’
‘I did a review of your interviews with Mr Wilder and Mr Warboys. The interview with Mr Warboys has no biometrical anomalies. But I don’t think that Mr Wilder was telling you the whole truth.’
I remembered Barry Wilder in the interview room and my total conviction that he had been telling the truth. He had nothing to do with the lynching of Mahmud Irani.
‘I thought you said that voice biometrics was infallible?’
‘I never said infallible. I said that it was light years ahead of twentieth-century tech like the lie detector.’ She hit the keyboard and called up the interview tape. ‘Just watch, will you?’
I heard my voice.
‘Did you have contact with Mahmud Irani after he was released from prison?’
I heard Barry Wilder reply and saw a yellow line jump across Tara Jones’ screen like summer lightning.
‘Yes . . . I got a knife . . . I was planning to stick it in his heart.’
‘He’s telling the truth,’ I said.
‘Yes, but even when he’s telling the truth, his results show evidence of heart palpitations, raised blood pressure, shallow breathing. Initially I didn’t run tests on statements that we believed to be true. And I should have done.’
‘But he’s nervous,’ I said. ‘He’s in a police station. He’s admitting that he considered killing one of the men who abused his daughter.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s more than that. Far more. His blood pressure was a reading of systolic 190 over a diastolic 110 – that’s what doctors call a hypertensive crisis. Even when he was telling you the truth, his blood pressure was off the chart.’
‘Are you saying he lied to me?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m saying that you didn’t ask him the right questions.’
* * *
Whitestone froze.
She was staring out at the massed reporters, photographers and camera crews stuffed into the first-floor media room at West End Central and they were all staring back at her, waiting for something to happen.
But nothing did.
This small, bespectacled woman, the most experienced homicide detective at 27 Savile Row, looked as if she did not understand what she was doing here, or what was expected of her. There was a statement in her right hand. I saw her fingers tighten into a fist, crumpling the statement.
I was on one side of her and the Chief Super was on the other. I saw the Chief Super gently touch Whitestone’s back, encouraging her, urging her on. And still she did not move.
From the time Whitestone had arrived at MIR-1 today she had seemed distracted, tired, as though her mind was still with her son in the hospital. But I brought her some serious coffee from the Bar Italia and by the time our MIT had assembled, she was more like her old self. Now she had suddenly blanked.
‘I’ve got it,’ I whispered, and took the microphone. ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I’m DC Max Wolfe of West End Central and I’m going to make a brief statement about our ongoing investigations and then take a few questions.’
Scarlet Bush stood up.
‘I wanted to ask you about the victims of the Hanging Club,’ she said.
I prised Whitestone’s statement from her hand. She glanced at me for a moment and then quickly fled the room.
I looked down at the words she had written:
I’m going to make a brief statement.
Scarlet Bush was still talking. ‘A child molester. A hit-and-run driver. A drug addict who put an old war hero in a coma. And now a hate preacher, popularly – and some would say deservedly – known as the Mental Mullah.’
I held my temper.
‘What’s your question?’
‘How does it feel to be hunting men who millions consider to be heroes?
‘Vigilantes are not heroes,’ I said. ‘Murderers are not heroes. Not in the eyes of the law.’
They were shouting questions at me now.
‘The law is there to protect everyone,’ I said.
‘Even pedlars of hate like Abu Din?’
‘Everyone. We will pursue the individuals who attempted to abduct Mr Din as vigorously as we would anyone else. That’s the way it works, folks. Sorry to disappoint you, but that’s the only way it can ever work.’
They were all shouting their questions at me now and I could feel a nervous Media Liaison Officer urging me to wind it up. But I maintained eye contact with Scarlet Bush.