He enlarged the second picture, with as little success. Everything about it blurred with enlargement. All he could make out was a light shirt and trousers that were possibly jeans. This figure was taller and bulkier than Messenger Bag. It appeared to be a woman but easily could have been a man. The photos were accompanied by the usual announcement from the Met: the police wished to speak to the individuals depicted in the stills from the building’s CCTV. If anyone knew who they were . . . et cetera and all the rest.
“Mark?” Pete was with Lilybet. “We’re ready for you.”
He shoved his mobile into his pocket and went to join his wife. She’d given Lilybet her morning sponge bath—no disasters having occurred during the night—and now she needed his help in dressing her. This was generally Robertson’s job, but he’d indicated a later arrival than normal. Part of his journey to them involved London Overground, and a switch had failed between two of the stations along his route, causing a delay. He hadn’t known this before he’d set out. Many apologies. No problem, Mark had told him. He could handle things till Robertson arrived.
Mark hated seeing Lilybet naked, though. While he often did see her that way, he liked to avoid it. It wasn’t her flaccid flesh that bothered him. Rather it was the indications—still minor at this point but not to be thus for long—that his daughter was maturing. He’d noted a few pubic hairs the last time he’d helped with her nappy. That thrust him into a future that was unthinkable at the moment and would doubtless prove untenable when it arrived.
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.”