Brotherhood of Blades Page 4

  ‘Who is it?’ the kid asked. She was dressed like a boy, but when she spoke it became clear she was a girl.

  ‘That’s what we want to know,’ Georgia told her. ‘So can you answer the question?’

  ‘Have you been around here all night?’ Stephanie repeated.

  They all shook their heads.

  ‘OK. Did you see anybody around here earlier?’ Georgia asked.

  Silence.

  ‘Do you know any women living around here, aged about forty, brown skin?’ she persisted.

  ‘Yeah. Loads,’ the girl answered. ‘Can I see the body?’

  ‘No.’ Stephanie pulled a notebook from the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Tell me the names of everyone you know that fits that description.’

  One of the forensic officers in the phone box called out, ‘There’s blood here.’

  That was enough for the kids. They raced off at breakneck speed to sell their information to the Elders, who they knew would pay them well.

  Stephanie grinned at Georgia. ‘We’ve got DNA from all the Brotherhood. With luck, we could have a name by the end of the night.’

  Georgia shook her head. ‘You think they don’t know that?’

  In the tent the murdered woman was lying on her side, legs bent as if her knees had given way. Her black skirt looked mauve with blood; it clung to her by the waistband alone. A pair of white knickers lay torn and in the dirt nearby. Her white shirt was heavily stained with blood, which had pooled around her upper body and was beginning to congeal. Blood spatters covered her face and clung to her black hair like badly streaked dark red dye. Both hands and one arm were thick with dried blood; she had clearly tried to stem the flow of blood and failed. She stank of faeces.

  Phoebe Aston, the redheaded pathologist, hauled herself to her feet, one hand cradling her distended belly. From the look of that bump, Georgia thought, she wouldn’t be seeing this case to the end.

  ‘She hasn’t been dead long,’ Phoebe said. ‘And she was obviously raped before she was stabbed.’

  Georgia stared at the woman and swallowed hard. She made her a silent promise that she would find the killer and bring them to justice.

  ‘The knife missed her heart,’ Phoebe told her. ‘But judging by the amount of blood, a large vein was severed, and she could have been stabbed more than once. I’ll know more after the PM.’

  Georgia and Stephanie moved out of the tent to study the pattern of bloodstains on the ground outside. Phoebe followed them.

  ‘Any idea what kind of a knife we’re looking for?’ Stephanie asked.

  ‘Not yet. Something else for the post-mortem.’

  ‘The killer’s clothes would have been covered in blood, too,’ Stephanie said. ‘Even if they came at her from behind, they couldn’t avoid it.’

  Georgia nodded agreement.

  Stephanie looked up at the sea of faces watching from the balconies around them. ‘We’ll get no help from around here,’ she said.

  ‘You never know,’ Georgia replied. ‘We need to move quickly. Get uniform knocking on every door. Get another team searching for the weapon and any bloodstained clothes.’

  ‘We’ve got a team of dogs on it,’ Stephanie told her. ‘That’ll help.’

  Georgia walked back to the white tent and stared at the victim again.

  ‘She had oral sex too,’ Phoebe told them. Her small forefinger pointed at sperm that had dried into the dark blood crusting over the side of the mouth. ‘This is DNA heaven. It’s everywhere. I don’t think it’ll take you long. Hasn’t everyone around here got a record as long as your legs?’

  ‘That’s assuming it was someone around here,’ Georgia answered.

  ‘The specimens of sperm are on their way over to the lab already,’ Phoebe told her. ‘What age would you put her at? I’m not good with black-skinned women.’

  Georgia shrugged but moved in to study the woman more closely. ‘About forty, I’d say.’ That fitted with the scant details they’d been given.

  ‘Too old to be on the game,’ Stephanie commented.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Georgia said.

  ‘Too old to make much money at it, then,’ Stephanie said.

  Georgia blew out a breath. ‘OK. Find out if anyone around here has reported their mother or wife missing?’

  Stephanie pulled her mobile from her pocket as they emerged from the tent. She stabbed in the number of the duty sergeant at the station.

  The same small boy as before cycled around the trees beside the cordon, attempting to sneak a closer look. Georgia moved to block him.

  ‘This is a no-go area,’ Stephanie shouted. ‘Don’t you understand?’

  ‘Someone got hurt here,’ Georgia said, slipping into the good cop/bad cop routine. ‘Very badly hurt. Is there anyone round here who might know who it is?’

  The boy stared at her wide-eyed for a second, then quick as a flash turned the handle-bars, jolting them out of Stephanie’s reach. ‘Wouldn’t fucking tell you if we did,’ he shouted, riding off. Georgia had to jump to avoid him.

  Phoebe Aston was now outside the tent but inside the cordon, squatting beside two forensic officers who were on their knees, scraping at the ground. She looked up and called to Georgia. ‘Lots of footprints here,’ she said. ‘At least five sets, I’d say.’ She slowly levered herself upright and eased her back. ‘One of them is very likely her killer’s. Shame about the sodding weather. It’s not looking hopeful, but I’ll do my best.’ The rain was the steady, persistent kind.

  ‘But why did they walk over to the phone box and phone it in?’ Georgia said half to herself.

  Phoebe rubbed her bump and grimaced in discomfort. ‘They’re all large footprints,’ she said, bending over again. She straightened up gingerly and arched her back.

  ‘When’s it due?’ Stephanie asked.

  ‘Not for ages, but I’m having trouble getting up and down. Sorry, I’m not as nimble as I should be. It’s bloody annoying. We’ll get these tested, and get back to you ASAP. At least three or four different prints here, could be five. Need to get moving – this rain is seriously pissing us up.’

  ‘All trainers?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘Couldn’t say in this light,’ Phoebe told her. ‘Three, four or five different shoes, I’m nearly sure, but even that’s half guess work.’

  ‘A gang-bang,’ Georgia suggested to Stephanie.

  ‘Gang retribution or punishment then,’ Stephanie said.

  ‘Er, ma’am . . .’ DC Peacock spoke hesitantly. ‘I think there’s something . . .’

  A female uniformed constable stepped forward. ‘There’s a young woman, ma’am. She’s hysterical, but I think she knows something. She’s waiting behind the cordon by the other flats.’

  ‘Come on,’ Georgia said to Stephanie. They both followed Peacock and the constable to the edge of the Sparrow block.

  When they reached the cordon, they found a pretty black teenage girl, dressed in a red PVC miniskirt and a black and red basque with a black leather jacket around her shoulders, shouting and arguing with the uniformed police, demanding to be let through.

  ‘It’s my aunt. I know it’s my aunt. Let me through or I’ll kick you in the . . .’

  Four large officers were having trouble restraining her. Half a dozen or so other residents had gathered around, shouting at the police. ‘Bastards!’ Georgia heard.

  Understandable, she thought as she approached the melée, especially if the girl was a relative of the victim. Georgia would have understood if the whole estate had turned out to support her, but what was more interesting was that they hadn’t. Stabbings and shootings were becoming an everyday occurrence on this estate; perhaps the residents were getting too accustomed to it.

  Or perhaps they truly were too afraid.

  Revenge killings over drug territories were all too common. And over respect, whatever that word had grown to mean. If a person walked on a gang member’s trainers, or looked the wrong way at his girlfriend, it wasn’t always the offender
who got hurt; more often his mother or sister was killed. That was the way things worked around here.

  At the meeting Georgia had attended earlier in the day, no one had mentioned that any new gang rivalry was brewing. The meeting had been about the firearm and drug trade on the estate; top priority was to bring in the gang leader, Stuart Reilly. A gang expert was being seconded in to help. Georgia didn’t know what she thought of experts, but she was keeping an open mind; if they helped her solve a case that was fine by her. What interested her most at the moment was the connection between this victim and the Brotherhood.

  Stephanie went over to the girl. Georgia stayed back; Stephanie was better at handling hysterical juveniles, being a mother herself. Georgia had no maternal instincts whatever, and was happy to leave her to it.

  Stephanie placed a firm hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘OK, let’s calm down, shall we? I’ll help you if I can. What’s your name?’

  ‘I think that’s my aunt that’s been murdered,’ the girl screamed, shrugging her shoulder aggressively to push Stephanie’s hand away. ‘I need to see. You have to let me. I have to know.’

  A couple of other teenagers in the group started spitting at the police. Georgia walked over and faced them. ‘This is the first and the last time I’m going to tell you to pack that in,’ she said threateningly. ‘Now move away.’

  Much to her surprise, they did.

  Stephanie put both hands on the girl’s shoulders and turned her so they were face to face. She spoke firmly, but with compassion. ‘I understand that you need to know, and I am going to help you to find out if it is your aunt. But you have to help me too. What’s your name?’

  ‘Chantelle.’

  ‘OK, Chantelle. This is a crime scene, so I can’t actually let you come any closer. But I have seen the dead woman, so I could recognize her. Can you describe your aunt? Or have you got a photo?’

  ‘She’s brown-skinned with long black hair. I haven’t got a picture.’ The girl had started to calm down. ‘Is it her?’

  Georgia sighed. Brown-skinned with long black hair described half the women on the estate.

  Stephanie continued. ‘Do you live on the estate?’

  The girl pointed towards the flats. Georgia followed her direction of her finger. A few young males were leaning over the third floor balcony, watching with interest. Members of the Brotherhood, she thought; she’d bet real money that they knew who was lying under the tent. And why.

  She had made a promise to the murdered woman, and she intended to keep it. She took a step towards the girl called Chantelle. ‘What makes you think it’s your aunt?’ she asked, careful to keep her tone calm.

  Chantelle darted away, but Stephanie caught her by the arm. ‘It’s OK,’ she said, gently pulling the girl towards her. ‘This is Detective Inspector Georgia Johnson; she wants to help you too. We’re going to come up to your flat with you, and we need you to find a photograph of your aunt.’

  ‘Do you have a mum?’ Georgia asked her as they headed for the back stairs of the Sparrow block.

  Chantelle shook her head.

  ‘A dad?’ Georgia persisted.

  A laugh twisted Chantelle’s face. ‘Everybody has a dad,’ she said. ‘Don’t mean you knows who he is.’

  They walked up the graffitied, urine-smelling concrete stairway.

  ‘Any brothers or sisters?’ Georgia persisted, gritting her teeth in disgust as she stepped over a used nappy on one of the steps.

  Chantelle shook her head.

  Georgia and Stephanie exchanged glances.

  ‘Is there anyone indoors with you?’ Stephanie asked her.

  ‘My aunt should be there. I’m supposed to be at work.’

  Georgia caught Stephanie’s eye again. The tops of the girl’s black fishnet hold-ups were visible under the red mini-skirt, and her boobs were pushed up over the top of her ribboned bodice. It was getting on for midnight. She definitely wasn’t going to the office.

  They reached the third floor and Chantelle turned to walk along the walkway. Stephanie and Georgia followed. Four youths, fleece-hooded tops over their heads, approached from the opposite direction. As they passed, they asked Chantelle if she was all right. She turned her head and ignored them.

  Georgia and Stephanie looked at each other. ‘Who were they?’ Georgia asked, as the girl stopped in front of her flat.

  Chantelle said nothing until they all stood in the narrow hall. Then she shrugged and said quietly, ‘Just some boys from around the estate.’

  Georgia raised an eyebrow at Stephanie. It was obvious Chantelle was afraid of them.

  ‘Were they Brotherhood members?’ Georgia asked her.

  Chantelle shrugged.

  ‘Were they Brotherhood members?’ Stephanie repeated.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Chantelle avoided the sergeant’s eyes. ‘I’ll look for a photo.’ She opened one of the doors off the hallway and walked into the room.

  Georgia followed, leaving Stephanie outside. This was obviously the aunt’s bedroom. It was clean and tidy, and smelt of furniture polish and potpourri. A picture of a younger Chantelle in a ballet tutu hung on the wall.

  Chantelle opened a drawer and rummaged for a few moments. As her hand emerged holding a photo, Stephanie called urgently, ‘Guv. You’d better look at this.’

  Georgia moved back into the hall. Steph was examining the door frame by the front door. She pointed to some reddish fingermarks, faint but fresh.

  Stephanie pulled out her mobile to request immediate forensic assistance. Chantelle stood behind Georgia, staring at the bloodied handprint, her eyes wide with fear.

  FOUR

  Within minutes the walkway outside Chantelle’s front door was spilling over with uniformed police and forensic officers. A cordon was set up ten yards on each side, denying access to the flats further along the floor. Uniformed police woke up angry residents, and told them the only way in and out of their homes for the time being was via a fire exit. It did nothing to help already strained relations.

  Forensic officers scurried around like ants over sugar, swiftly covering every inch of the third floor walkway, looking for traces of fresh or dried blood from around the flat. They were aware of the need for speed, not only to avoid antagonizing the residents more than they had to, but also because they were working against the wind and rain.

  Each little spot was meticulously scraped from the concrete floor or the grey brick walls, then carefully dropped into phials and sent post haste to the South London lab. The police exhibits officer videoed the pattern of drops of blood between the stairs and the walkway. Uniformed police were holding sniffer-dogs with noses and tails erect; the dogs ran up and down the stairway, following the scent from a fragment of the dead woman’s clothing. One barked excitedly and panted over a spot of blood on the stairway. A forensic officer quickly scraped the spot into a phial, then the dogs were off again. Moments later another barked outside the white tent that covered the murdered woman. The handler praised the dog, and held another scrap of the victim’s torn clothing under its nose. It set off again in search of more bloodstains, or better still, the weapon that had delivered the fatal damage.

  Now the residents of the block had learned this was a murder enquiry, they receded into their flats with front doors firmly shut and bolted. They were all afraid of the consequences of talking to the law; grassing was punishable by a beating to within an inch of their lives, or worse. Haley Gulati was the proof of that.

  The police remained undeterred. They knocked on every door, even using loudhailers to wake the supposedly sleeping occupants. Most of them eventually opened their doors a couple of inches, to tell the police they had heard or seen nothing. Dogs growled and snarled from inside some flats as sniffer-dogs ran up and down walkways in search of the weapon.

  It was now one a.m. on Saturday. DI Georgia Johnson had told her team that their long night would continue into the next day.

  The blue and white criss-crossed tape that barred access to Chan
telle’s flat was guarded by two uniformed officers. One kept trying to button his jacket across his rotund stomach to keep the wind out, and eventually gave up. The other was a handsome, fair-haired constable whom Georgia recognized from a Christmas do at the station. Stephanie, a little the worse for wear, had left the party draped around his neck, and kept throwing significant looks at him. Between them they afforded Georgia some welcome light relief from the grim situation.

  The activity outside intensified. Georgia and Stephanie went back into Chantelle’s flat, and looked again at the faint handprint on the inside of the door.

  ‘Are you sure no one has been in your flat this evening?’ Georgia asked Chantelle for the third time.

  ‘No, but I had a nosebleed earlier,’ Chantelle said nervously.

  Georgia closed her eyes. ‘OK. So where’s the tissue or handkerchief you used to stem the blood?’

  Chantelle put a hand to her forehead. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know. I really don’t know. I can’t think straight.’

  ‘Spare us the theatricals,’ Georgia said sharply. ‘There’s blood on the walkway outside too. Someone has been to this flat, and not too long ago. The blood outside is being tested as we speak. If it turns out to be your aunt’s, as I suspect it will, the DNA of whoever has been here will be in it too. If you know who it is, you need to tell us now. We’ll know anyway in twenty-four hours, but the sooner we know who killed your aunt, the sooner we can do something about it.’

  Stephanie flicked a doubtful glance at Georgia. Twenty-four hours for forensics results these days was wishful thinking; they had both been in the murder squad long enough to know it could take up to two weeks.

  She decided to play out the bluff. ‘Who are you trying to protect, Chantelle?’

  ‘No one.’

  None of them spoke for a few seconds, but Georgia’s eyes held Chantelle’s. The girl stuffed a shaking fist in her mouth.