‘She did well,’ said Hari.
‘Your car is a problem,’ said Binici.
‘It is,’ agreed Hari. ‘We need to go.’
‘We can’t. The citizens arrive at eight tomorrow morning.’
‘Shit.’ Hari stared at Binici. ‘And what if the police are still outside?’
Binici didn’t reply.
Collins returned, switched the lights on. She glanced between Binici and Hari. ‘I think it’s a straight-up accident – they’re knocking up the whole street – but we’ve got a whole load of heat at exactly the wrong time. Our new arrivals won’t like it.’
‘Agreed,’ said Binici. ‘The fash will have to be moved.’
Hari frowned. ‘And how is that going to happen?’
‘I’m sure Sara can manage something,’ Binici said.
His tone was flat, but Collins bridled.
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning you’ll think of something,’ said Binici. ‘You were getting on fine with the fash who just called. You can do that whole flirty dumb routine you did again.’
Hari could see the anger in Collins’ face. She moved to stand face to face with Binici, shifting her balance from foot to foot as she talked. ‘You’re the leader, Abi, we know that. We’re on operations, we know that, and we have a job to do. We know all of that.’ She leant closer. There was barely a centimetre between them now. ‘But if you talk like you’re my fucking pimp again, I swear I’ll kick your bollocks so hard you’ll be limping till Christmas.’ She waited a beat then stepped back.
Hari held his breath. Collins’ words hung between all three of them. Behind the browline glasses, eyebrows raised, Binici’s eyes didn’t blink. When his left hand slipped into his trouser pocket, Hari tensed. He knew what that meant. The leader was wired. Every muscle was stretched, every vein was pumping. His authority had been challenged, violence had been threatened. He couldn’t let that stand.
But she had stepped away. The challenge was over. His hand came out of his pocket, empty. He folded his arms.
‘I misspoke,’ he said.
Collins nodded.
‘I’ll make some tea,’ said Hari.
44
10.20 p.m.
IPS AT NIGHT was a quieter, more sedate place, but in the opinion of many old hands somehow at its most potent. Freed from any UK-centric news cycle, the rest of the world took centre stage. Europe may well be sleeping but the Americas were wide awake, buying, selling, consuming. Soon Tokyo, Mumbai and Beijing would join them and set their agendas for the day. Where they led, the rest of the world would follow.
On the way into Canary Wharf, grabbing the WiFi at successive stations, Tommi had messaged some thoughts to Sam, Sophie and Famie.
‘There’s not much time. We need to be on the same page. Questions for Leven. What do we know about Toby Howells? Might the crack have been a plant? Do we know the murder weapon? Was he in a gang or associated at all with gang activity? What journalist contacts did he have (if any?), what do the cops really think? Did he know Hari Roy? Will post replies here.’
Carol Leven had joined IPS at the same time as Tommi but instead of diversifying into economics, politics and the EU as he had done, she had stuck with crime. All of it. Domestic, violent, international, cyber, organized. If you needed trends, stats or leaky police officers, Carol Leven was a one-stop shop.
Tommi hailed her from across the newsroom, walked briskly to her desk.
‘I got your message,’ she said. ‘Why the interest in Howells?’ She was unsmiling, perfunctory. Five six, pale, unlined skin. Her eyes hadn’t left her screen.
‘Just a tip-off. Maybe the drugs were a plant,’ he said.
‘Meaning?’
He shrugged. ‘Meaning maybe he wasn’t killed for the usual shitty old reasons. Territory. Trade. Pride. Family. That kind of thing. And if I knew any more, Carol, I wouldn’t be here, talking to you.’
He stared at her, she stared at the screen.
‘These are the crime scene photos I’ve seen,’ she said. She clicked on two images, one showing a close-up of a bruised black face with cuts above both closed eyes and a broken nose. The other, with a wider angle, a lacerated neck and a knife-wound to the heart.
‘That’s very dead,’ Tommi muttered. ‘Weapon?’
‘A heavy knife. Not found, but the blade is maybe three centimetres wide.’
Tommi typed at speed.
‘And the crack?’
‘Small bag. Eighty, ninety pounds’ worth maybe.’
‘If he was trading, or just out of bounds, wouldn’t they have taken that? Why leave it?’
Carol shrugged. ‘Small fry. Not worth bothering with. Possibly.’
‘Or planted,’ said Tommi.
‘Agreed,’ said Carol, ‘or planted. Howells hasn’t had any gang contact that I can find. I’ve spoken to three contacts who know this patch, they each said they knew nothing about any hit and had never heard of Howells. He wasn’t on the police’s radar either.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Ambitious. Decent marks at his college, hard worker. Not a bad writer, read a couple of his pieces. I’ll send them to you.’ She hit some keys, looked up at Tommi for the first time. ‘It’s an odd one certainly. I hadn’t really focused on it till you messaged me. His girlfriend said he’d been away a lot recently. Said he had a commission. That he’d been excited. Had had a bit of money. And then he was dead. She’d explained it all to the police but they had the drugs angle to work on, so for them he was just another dead black druggie.’
‘You spoke to her?’
‘Just now.’
Tommi smiled. ‘You’re good.’
She returned to her screen, said nothing. He typed, then sent.
‘A commission,’ he said. ‘And they paid. That’s gotta be unusual. Who commissions a kid to write anything?’
‘No idea.’
‘Might the girlfriend know?’
‘I’ll send you her number. You can do the work.’
Tommi knew when he was dismissed. He began to put away his laptop. ‘Interested?’ he said.
‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘Not the same. It’s not neat and tidy if that’s what you mean.’
‘Is anything you do neat and tidy?’
‘Sometimes,’ she said. ‘But not often. Whisky?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Whisky,’ she repeated. She opened a drawer, inside which sat a square box of miniatures. Room for twelve, there were three missing. ‘For the journey home, Tommi. Benefits of the late shift. Take what you want, I’m trying to cut down. Why are you interested in Howells anyway? It’s not your beat.’
Tommi picked out a couple of the small bottles. ‘Tell you some time. It’s complicated.’ He pocketed the whisky. ‘While you’re logged in,’ he said, ‘any chance you could search for Howells in our system, just to see if anyone else has been interested in him?’
A clatter of keys. A ‘no results’ sign appeared.
‘Nah,’ she said, ‘no results’ showing again in its own window. ‘Bye, Tommi.’