Bolton, J. - Now You See Me

I watched her and the man pull on pale-blue Tyvek suits and shoe covers. She tucked her hair into the hood. Then they went behind the screens, the man standing aside at the last moment to allow her to go first.

By this time, white-suited figures were making their way around the site like phantoms. The scene-of-crime officers had arrived. They would establish an inner cordon around the body and an outer one around the crime scene. From now on, everyone entering the cordons would be signed in and out, the exact time of their arrival and departure being recorded. I’d learned all this at the crime academy, only a few months ago, but it was the first time I’d seen it in practice.

A gazebo-like structure was being erected over the spot where the corpse still lay. Screens has already been put up to create walls and within seconds the investigators had a large, enclosed area in which to work. Police tape was set up around my car. Lights were being unloaded from the van just as the DI and her companion emerged. They spoke together for a few seconds then the man turned and walked off, striding over the striped tape that marked the edge of the cordon. The DI came my way.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said my minder. I handed him my cup and he moved away. The new DI was standing in front of me. Even in the Tyvek suit she looked elegant. Her skin was a rich, dark cream and her eyes green. I remembered reading that her mother had been Indian.

‘DC Flint?’ she asked, in a soft Scottish accent. I nodded.

‘We haven’t met,’ she went on. ‘I’m Dana Tulloch.’

3

‘OK,’ SAID DI TULLOCH. ‘GO SLOWLY AND KEEP TALKING.’

I set off, my feet rustling on the pavement. Tulloch had taken one look at me and insisted that a Tyvek suit and slippers be brought. I’d be getting cold, she said, in spite of the warm evening, and I’d attract much less attention if the bloodstains were covered up. I was also wearing a pair of latex gloves to preserve any evidence on my hands.

‘I’d been on the third floor,’ I said. ‘Flat 37. I came down that flight of stairs and turned right.’

‘What were you doing there?’

‘Talking to a witness.’ I stopped and corrected myself. ‘A potential witness,’ I went on. ‘I’ve been coming over on Friday evenings for a few weeks now. It’s the one time I can be pretty certain not to see her mother. I’m trying to persuade her to testify in a case and her mother isn’t keen.’

‘Did you succeed?’ asked Tulloch.

I shook my head. ‘No,’ I admitted.

We reached the end of the walkway and could see the square again. Uniform were trying to persuade people to go home and not having much luck.

‘Guess there isn’t much on TV tonight,’ muttered Tulloch. ‘Which case?’

‘Gang rape,’ I replied, knowing I could probably expect trouble. I didn’t work on crime involving sexual assault and earlier that evening I’d been moonlighting. A few years ago the Met set up a number of bespoke teams known as the Sapphire Units to deal with all such offences. It was the sort of work I’d joined the police service to do and I was waiting for a vacancy to come up. In the meantime, I kept up to speed on what was going on. I couldn’t help myself.

‘Was the passage empty when you came out of the stairwell?’ Tulloch asked.

‘I think so,’ I said, although the truth was I wasn’t sure. I’d been annoyed at the response I’d got from Rona, my potential witness; I’d been thinking about my next move, if I even had one. I hadn’t been paying much attention to what was going on around me.

‘When you came out into the square, what did you see? How many people?’

Slowly, we retraced the last time I’d walked this way, with Tulloch firing questions at me every few seconds. Annoyed with myself for not being more alert earlier, I tried my best. I didn’t think there’d been anyone around. There’d been music, some sort of loud rap that I hadn’t recognized. A helicopter had passed overhead, lower than normal, because I’d glanced up at it. I was certain I’d never seen the blonde woman before tonight. There had been something, for a second, as I’d looked at her, something niggling, but no, it had gone.

‘I was looking back at this point,’ I said, as I turned on the spot. ‘There was a loud noise behind me.’

I met Tulloch’s eye and knew what she was thinking. I’d looked back and had probably missed seeing the attack by seconds. Split seconds.

‘When did you see her?’ she asked me.

‘I was a bit closer,’ I replied. ‘I was fumbling in my bag as I was walking – I thought I might have left my car keys behind – then I looked up and saw her.’

We were right back in the thick of it. A white-suited figure was taking photographs of the blood spatter on my car.

‘Go on,’ she told me.

‘I didn’t see the blood at first,’ I said. ‘I thought she’d stopped to ask directions, that maybe she thought there was someone in the car.’

‘Tell me what she looked like. Describe her to me.’

‘Tall,’ I began, not sure where this was going. She’d just seen the woman in question for herself.

She sighed. ‘You’re a detective, Flint. How tall?’

‘Five ten,’ I guessed. ‘Taller than both of us. And slim.’

Her eyebrows went up.

‘Size twelve,’ I said quickly. ‘From the back I thought she was young, probably because she was slim and well dressed, but when I saw her face, she seemed older than I expected.’

‘Go on.’

‘She looked good,’ I went on, warming to my theme. If Tulloch wanted endless detail I could oblige. ‘She was well dressed. Her clothes looked expensive. Simple, but well made. Her hair had been professionally done. That colour doesn’t come out of a bottle you buy at Boots and there was no sign of roots. Her skin was good and so were her teeth, but she had lines around her eyes and her jawline wasn’t that tight.’

‘So you’d put her age at …’

‘I’d say well-preserved mid forties.’

‘Yes, so would I.’ There was movement all around us, but Tulloch’s eyes weren’t leaving my face. There could have been just the two of us in the car park.

‘Did she have ID?’ I asked. ‘Do we know who she is?’

‘Nothing in her bag,’ said a man’s voice. I turned. Tulloch’s companion of earlier had joined us. He’d pushed his sunglasses on to the top of his head. There was scarring around his right eye that looked recent. ‘No ID, no car keys, some cash and bits of make-up,’ he went on. ‘Mystery how she got here. We’re some distance from the Tube and she doesn’t strike me as a bus type.’

Tulloch was looking at the large blocks of flats that surrounded the square.

‘Course, her car keys could have been stolen along with the car. A woman like that probably drives a nice motor,’ he said. He had a faint south London accent.

‘She had diamond studs in her ears,’ I said. ‘This wasn’t a robbery.’

He looked at me. His eyes were blue, almost turquoise. The one with the scarring around it was bloodshot. ‘Could have been fake,’ he suggested.

‘If I was slitting someone’s throat and cutting open their stomach to rob them, I’d take any visible jewellery on the off-chance, wouldn’t you?’ I said. ‘And she had a nice-looking wristwatch too. I could feel it scratching against my hand as she died.’

He didn’t like that, I could tell. He raised his hand to rub his sore eye and frowned at me.

‘Flint, this is DI Joesbury,’ said Tulloch. ‘Nothing to do with the investigation. He only came out with me tonight because he’s bored. This is DC Flint. Lacey, I think, is that right?’

‘Which reminds me,’ said Joesbury, who’d barely acknowledged the introduction. ‘Lewisham want to know when you’re bringing her in.’