Something to hide, p.35
Something to Hide, page 35
He found Pete waiting for him, with Lilybet propped up against her. She’d managed to wrestle their daughter into a bright pink Hello Kitty T-shirt. A purple skirt and striped pink and purple socks were laid out neatly next to her. Mark said, “Look at this pretty girl.” He took one of her feet in his hands, kissed its toes, said, “We need to give this beauty a pedicure, eh?” and slid the sock onto her foot. He reached for the other as the front door’s knocker rapped soundly against the wood.
“Has Robertson forgotten his key again?” Pete asked him. “Perhaps it’s time we left one outside.”
Mark went to open the door, but it wasn’t Robertson. It was the Met detective who’d been to Empress State Building. And if Mark knew anything at all about how the murder squads worked, it was not a good sign when a member of a team—not to mention the head of a team—showed up in the morning upon one’s doorstep.
MAYVILLE ESTATE
DALSTON
NORTH-EAST LONDON
Tani had remained in the flat. The place was a tomb in its silence but not in its temperature, and not a breath of breeze made its way through the open window. Even the birds, regular inhabitants of the trees in the play area across the lane, had ceased their songs. He couldn’t blame them.
He meant to stay in place. Earlier, he’d found four carrier bags hidden away in a cupboard above the one in which his father hung his clothes. He’d done a deliberate search for them and had been forced to borrow a stepladder from a neighbour to see to the back of the cupboard. Catching sight of the carrier bags, he brought them down and dumped their contents on his parents’ bed. If blood could run cold, that was what he reckoned his did.
It all looked perfectly innocent. Had he not been at home when the cutter had shown her face, he probably wouldn’t have given the items—as odd as they were in a group—a second thought: bedsheets, a large vinyl tablecloth, two new box cutters, cotton wool, a bottle of alcohol, four packages of gauze. But having been home, he knew exactly what he was looking at. The question, then, was not, What? or, Why? It was, When?
Among the items on the bed, he saw a yellow sheet of paper. On this was the printed list that the cutter had handed over to Abeo. Additional to the list, however, he saw a telephone number. This was beneath the cutter’s name—Chinara “Sarah” Sani—centred on the top of the page. Of course, she’d include her name, he thought. This revolting business of cutting little girls was her bread and butter, and she would want other parents of cutting-age girls to know about it. No need to skip off to Nigeria, she was blithely announcing. I offer an in-your-home service and all you need to do is ring for it and demonstrate an ability to pay.
He rang the number. Of course, no human answered. He left a message as requested: “You cut my sister . . . you put a finger on my sister . . . I kill you, bitch. This’s Tani Bankole, B-a-n-k-o-l-e. My sister’s Simisola, my dad is Abeo, and I mean what I tell you.”
He felt no better afterwards, so he gathered up the things that he’d found in his parents’ bedroom and he shoved them into one of the enormous metal wheelie bins that served Mayville Estate. He didn’t use the closest, but one some distance away from Bronte House. He opened it, dumped the contents of the bags inside, and let the top fall with a satisfying crash. Then, back at the flat, he stuffed the carrier bags with crumpled newspaper and replaced them in the cupboard.
He was going through the chest of drawers in his parents’ room to see if there was anything else he needed to be aware of when he heard his name called from outside the flat. Sophie!
She was standing in front of the door, looking hesitant. He went out to her, feeling uplifted for the first time that day, and in a moment he had his arms around her and could feel her heart beating against his chest. It was only a moment’s embrace, though, because she pushed him away and said, “I’ve found a place we can take her.”
He said in reply, “Mum’s gone off with her. I don’t know where an’ I don’t know why an’ I don’t know where to look.”
She said, “It’s all right. Like I said, I’ve found a place. I read about it online. It’s anti-FGM and girls go there if they think they’re in danger of being cut. We c’n take Simi there. And, meantime, there’re these things . . .” She fished in her large shoulder bag and brought out a sheaf of papers clipped together. She handed them to him, saying, “It’s a protection order. We need to get this filed.”
He frowned. “But if there’s a place—”
“There is, and we’ll take her there. But also we’ve got to try everything. The place to take her is what we’ll use first while we’re waiting for the protection order to come through.”
“Where is it, this place?”
“Whitechapel.”
“Whitechapel? What th’ hell, Soph . . .”
“It’s the best solution to get Simi away from here quickly. They stow the girls with families. They hide them. It’s the same place hid that girl’s been in the news? You know which one?”
He’d been far too concerned with what was happening in his own life to consider what might be happening in someone else’s, so he shook his head.
Sophie said, “Never mind. She’s someone who got taken there and the lady runs the place says she won’t budge till she’s sure this girl is safe if she goes home.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Didn’t need to. All we have to do is to take Simi and explain what’s going on. Where is she?”
“Like I said, Soph, I don’t know. Mum’s not letting her out of her sight. And I think she found a place could see to Simi—”
“Oh God. Do you think she’s having it done now?”
“She said there was this clinic, see. She gave them some money, and my dad wanted the money back cos he didn’t know she took it in the first place, my mum. And . . . Sophie, I found all this clobber meant to be used on Simi when the cutter shows her mug here again. It was all the shit from the list she left with him. I binned it all.”
“Okay. Excellent, that. Now we only got to find Simisola.”
THE MOTHERS SQUARE
LOWER CLAPTON
NORTH-EAST LONDON
“May I have a word?” Thomas Lynley enquired politely.
“I’m helping my wife just now,” Mark said. “With our daughter.”
“Waiting isn’t a problem for me,” Lynley told him. “And as this is rather important . . . ?”
“Can we not speak later, when I’m at work?”
“I’m afraid not. May I . . . ?” Lynley gestured in a way that indicated he wished to enter.
“She’s disabled,” Mark said.
Lynley gave him a glance.
“Our daughter’s disabled. Her attendant hasn’t shown up yet so I’m helping my wife. Which is why if this could wait till later . . .”
It was at that extremely inopportune moment that Robertson showed up. Mark saw him rounding the corner from Sladen Place to enter the square on its western side. The bloke shouted, “Hey ho, I’m here!” and gave a jaunty wave, adding, “Blasted public transport, eh. Her nibs up and about?”
“She is. We were dressing.”
“I’ll handle that, shall I?” and he stepped past them, with a nod at Lynley, and went to join Pete.
There was nothing for it but to let Lynley inside. Mark did so, saying, “Why here, then? If you want me alone, it could have been like before, in the Orbit.”
“I thought you might want this conversation to be more private.”
Mark took the detective into the kitchen, the room farthest from where Pete and Robertson were finishing up with Lilybet. The plan had been to strap her into her wheelchair for an outing that morning. It was Mark’s hope, now, that the outing would take place sooner rather than later. Pete intended to take her to Hackney Downs, where a path along the edge of the park made manoeuvring the wheelchair easier than in other locations.
He cleared the table of its unwashed crockery and stacked everything on the worktop. This was cluttered already with a coffee maker, a microwave, an upright mixer, and an unwashed blender along with four boxes of cereal, a bunch of overripe bananas, and a large plastic container of milk. At one side of the room stood a rubbish bin that needed emptying as well as a black rubbish bag containing used nappies. These were lending the air a sharp and unmistakable odour. Without wanting to, Mark saw the kitchen as the urbane and well-dressed detective no doubt saw it. He couldn’t imagine Thomas Lynley ever having lived in a circumstance even remotely like this.
He offered a coffee, which Lynley declined. He did accept, however, the offer of a chair. He was carrying with him a large manila envelope. From this he took the same two photographs that Mark had seen on the internet via his smartphone. These pictures, however, were far clearer. Someone in digital technology at the Met had vastly improved them since they had been released to the media and used by the tabloids. He wondered as he looked down at them whether that had been a deliberate choice by the Met: to release something too grainy to be useful in order to soothe the photographic subjects into believing they were unrecognisable.
Lynley disabused him of this notion by saying, “These came in quite late last night, which is why they haven’t yet been released.”
Mark raised his head. He pulled a chair out from the table and sat opposite Lynley. He drew both pictures towards him in a show of giving them his full consideration. He then said, “Is it your thought that I might be able to assist you?”
“You’ve been to Teo Bontempi’s flat. You might well have seen one of these two individuals.”
“It seems to me—” Mark had to stop to clear his throat. “It seems to me that you’d get a far better response were you to take these round the flats themselves.”
“That’s being done,” Lynley noted. “In the meantime, do you recognise either of these people? At least one of them appears to be a woman.”
He looked at the pictures again. He said, “Why might I know them? Are the photos from the night Teo was hurt?”
“We’ve backed up a few days. These are from two days before,” Lynley said. “They’re enlargements of the originals, obviously. The originals feature Teo as well. She’s at the building’s door.”
“With these two?” he gestured to the pictures.
“Speaking with each of them in turn. It appears that in both cases, they rang the entry buzzer. But rather than let them into the building, she came down for a word.”
“And then let them in?”
“It doesn’t appear that way. But we do need to find them because it’s clear each of them went to see her.”
Mark shook his head. “I wish I could help,” was what he said. “Your trip would have been more worthwhile.”
“As to that . . .” Lynley gathered the pictures and returned them to the envelope. He didn’t go on.
“Yes?” Mark prompted.
“You have a valuable piece of evidence, and it’s that that I’ve come for, actually.”
Mark felt a rush of hot, then cold. “What might that be?”
“Her mobile phone. You have it. Or your wife has it. Or the gentleman who arrived just now to help out has it. The final time it pinged, the mobile was in this area. Of everyone remotely connected to Teo, yours is the address closest to the mobile phone tower that caught her phone’s signal. Considering her husband’s declaration that the mobile was recharging on her bedside table when he left her, considering that you were the person to find her several days later, and considering that mobile phone tower, it stands to reason that you have the phone. The only real question is when you took it: before the arrival of the ambulance or once Teo was in hospital.”
Mark knew that if he denied it, Lynley’s next step would be a search warrant. He also knew that he should have tossed the phone in the rubbish and he would have done had he not been such a fool. He said, hearing the heaviness in his voice, “I took it directly I phoned for an ambulance.”
Lynley said nothing. He merely watched him with an unwavering gaze.
“I know I should have left it. Or at least turned it over to someone. But I couldn’t risk leaving it there.” He had the phone with him, on his person. He took it from his pocket and handed it to Lynley. He said, “Someone might have taken it had I left it.”
“And you couldn’t have that,” Lynley noted.
“I reckoned I’d return it to her when she came out of hospital. And then . . .”
“And then she died and you thought you were safe. Especially since you didn’t know that her death was actually a murder. But once you knew that . . . There’s the rub, DCS Phinney, and I expect you see it. Once you knew she was murdered, you kept the phone. You’re a cop, so I know you see how that looks.”
“It looks like I lied to you when we first met.”
“Did you?”
“She did go her own way when she was on the team.”
“But that’s not why you transferred her, is it? I think the reason might well be more personal. I expect once we get into this phone, we’re going to know that reason.”
Mark had to look away. His mind was shot through with what Lynley was going to see on that phone: the photos taken and exchanged, the innumerable texts, voice messages, one decidedly raw video. He said, returning his gaze to the other man, “What you’ll see is the madness that comes with love, and I expect you’ll recognise it as such. I kept the phone because I didn’t want you to see it. I didn’t want you to know it. No one knew.”
“Your wife?”
“No. No. She couldn’t have known. There was no way.”
“Four,” Lynley said.
“Four what?”
“Four denials.” From the manila envelope, Lynley removed the photographs he’d already shown Mark. He placed them side by side on the table. He said, “Have another look, please.”
“I don’t know either one of them. I don’t even begin to recognise either of them. I don’t—” Abruptly he stopped himself. Three denials, he thought.
Darling to be inside you once more, once more.
“Do you want me to know about anything I’m going to see on this phone?” Lynley asked.
“I was mad for her. I was mad about her. That’s what you’ll see. From me, at least. That’s what you’ll see.”
“And from others?” Lynley asked.
“I don’t know.” Mark recognised that his entire body was going numb. He said again, “I don’t know. Once the phone locked, there was nothing else that I could see.”
The kitchen door opened and both of them looked in its direction. Pete stood there with Lilybet in her wheelchair and Robertson at their daughter’s elbow. Pete said, “We’ve come to kiss our daddy bye-bye.”
Before he could say anything and before he could stop the worst from happening, Pete rolled Lilybet into the room.
LEYTON
NORTH LONDON
Repeatedly, Monifa Bankole had phoned the mobile number given her when she and Simi had first gone to the clinic. Consistently, there had been no reply and, ultimately, there had been no room to leave another message. But the appointment book had been stuffed with names. This being the case, it was inconceivable that the clinic was shut down for good. Indeed, what seemed far more likely was that the operation had merely moved to another area in London. She just had to find out where.
But she’d had no luck, and now she knew she had to take some kind of action. Tani had poured petrol on the fire of her anxiety. Abeo, Tani had informed her, had made the necessary purchases he’d been told to make by Chinara Sani, the Nigerian cutter. Tani had binned them, he’d then shown her the list that the cutter had given to Abeo, and then he’d demanded she hand Simisola over to him so that he could get her to a place of safety because all Abeo had to do was repurchase the items and arrange to have Simi cut in another location. When she’d declared that she wouldn’t hand over Simisola to him, he’d shaken a few papers in front of her face, claiming they constituted a protection order that was going to be handed over to the appropriate authorities if she didn’t cooperate.
It was the word cooperate that did it for her. It was the very idea that she was meant to cooperate with her own son because she was female. She’d said to him, “You do not give me orders.”
His tone altered. “Mum. Please. I want to take her someplace safe.”
But she wouldn’t relent. She knew she was risking Simisola’s going into Care by refusing to hand the little girl over to her brother. If he filed the papers on his own, it was probable that Care would be the outcome. But to Monifa, the fear was losing Simi for months upon months and perhaps even permanently.
With Simi’s hand in hers, Monifa went in search of Halimah, the mother of Simi’s best friend, Lim. She lived on Mayville Estate as well, but at the other side of it, on the second floor of Lydgate House in Woodville Road. Monifa herself had never been there—Abeo did not approve of Halimah, as she was divorced—but Simisola had done, so she knew in which direction to head and to what floor they needed to go in the lift to gain access to Halimah’s flat.
Lim had been Halimah’s only daughter, her only child. Halimah had not been keen on having Lim cut, but as she herself had been cut, she had sought someone to perform the ritual. For that was how she’d thought it at the time: merely a ritual to be gone through in order to be cleansed and to herald womanhood. She had intended no harm to her child.
No one, least of all Halimah, had expected things to go so very wrong. No one had expected anything but a period of discomfort and, when it was over, Lim clean and pure. But nothing had worked as planned and now Lim was dead by her own hand.
When Halimah opened the door to her knock, Monifa said, “Abeo has found someone. He has brought her to the flat. Tani knows, and I am so afraid that he intends to take Simisola away because of this.”
