Nkata laid it out for them: confirmation that Monifa Bankole had arranged to have her daughter cut at the clinic above the abandoned toy shop; that she had been going against her husband’s wishes in the matter as he had not wanted to spend the amount that the clinic charged; that on the day that the coppers arrived to close the place down, she’d been at the clinic to fetch back her deposit money upon the orders of her husband; that now both her daughter and her son were missing. “The boy—he’s called Tani—got beat up bad by Bankole,” Nkata finished. “Over a protection order, this was. Monifa whacked him with a steam iron—Bankole, this is—”
“Ouch,” Havers said.
“—and that gave the boy a chance to run off. According to Monifa, Bankole’s set on taking the girl—she’s called Simisola—to Nigeria and he’s going to leave the country with her if their passports aren’t grabbed.”
“Where did you leave things?” Lynley asked him.
Nkata told the rest quickly: how he’d found Monifa Bankole from information supplied by a neighbour, how he’d got her off the estate entirely, and how he’d taken her home to his mother for her own protection.
“She d’n’t want to leave. Th’ only way I could get her away was by lyin’， ’m ’fraid,” he concluded. “I said I was arresting her. Sorry, guv, but otherwise she was intent on finding her kids and she wouldn’t’ve come.”
“So she’s in Brixton now?” Lynley clarified.
“No way her husband’s about to think of lookin for her there.”
“You got her chained to the bed or something, Win?” Barbara asked. “Cos if she’s set on finding her kids, how’re you planning to keep her there?”
“Mum’s with her f’r now. She won’t let her go. Plus,” with a grin, “she’s bigger ’n Monifa, my mum is. An’ she’s used to beating on me and Stoney. We got some work to keep Monifa from her husband, though. An’ we need to put our mitts on his passport, which c’n only happen if there’s a protection order in place. He strikes me as a bloke who goes his own way no matter what. Which means, no protection order an’ he’s gone from the country the second he finds Simisola.”
“Do we know where she is?”
“Only the brother knows. An’ I don’t ’spect him to be sharing that information anytime soon.”
Lynley directed his next questions to the DCs, saying, “Any joy on finding Mercy Hart?”
“I’ve got an address,” one of them said, a lanky twenty-something who had not yet outgrown spots on his face. He had an impressive patch of them fanning out from the corner of his mouth. “She got herself stopped for speeding in January, this was. She had to give her address and it wasn’t the address she’d given to the lads at the Stoke Newington station. I checked to make certain it was still good. It is.”
“What do we know about her?” Lynley asked. “Aside from her being associated with a putative women’s clinic.”
“Not much. Single mum. Three kids. All girls.”
“Where does she live?” Lynley asked the DC.
“Stratford,” he said. “Rokeby Street.”
“Are you certain? That’s quite a distance from where she was arrested.”
“Could be she’s moved house, sir. That’s the last known address.”
“We’ll need to question her, but let’s ask the Stratford station to send someone round first. We’ll need a photo of her as well. Compare it to the CCTV footage and take it round the flats in Streatham. Even if she’s no longer in Stratford, we’ll have a leg up if someone recognises her. Check her car’s number plates against the CCTV film.”
“As to number plates,” another of the DCs said, this one a young woman with plaits who looked to Barbara like a twelve-year-old. “Sorry it’s been such a time, but there were countless cars on Streatham High Road on the day Teo Bontempi was attacked.”
“You’ve got someone of interest?”
“I’m not altogether certain, guv. Could be it’s just a similar name. One of the cars is registered to”—she checked her notes—“a Paul Phinney.”
Barbara looked at Lynley and Nkata. Then she shifted her gaze to the young DC. “You’re certain?” she asked.
“About who the car is registered to? Yes. ’Course anyone could have been driving it.”