“Ah. Got it. Like the Met’s tech people—with nothing else to do aside from gazing at their smartphones, mind you—would have set everything aside to tinker about till they were able to put Teo Bontempi’s head—that’s Adaku to you—on the body of a woman wearing ethnic garb just like hers, which, by the way, was hanging in her clothes cupboard. So who was it, then, all kitted out like Adaku?”
“I would have to see the film.”
Havers blew out a breath.
Lynley observed the woman. She licked her lips. He could see her swallow. She reached for a plastic cup on the table between them, began to lift it, but set it down quickly. Her hands, Lynley saw, weren’t steady enough that she’d want them to be noted.
He said to her, “What is it you’re afraid of? Or should I ask who are you afraid of?”
“I never hurt anyone,” was her reply. “No FGM, no murder, nothing. Nothing like that. Nothing. If someone wrote and accused me of whatever it is, what they wrote is a lie. That’s all I’m saying.” And to her solicitor, “I want to leave now.”
“You’ve been charged,” Havers said. “You can leave like you want, but where you’ll go when you do leave is straight into remand. That would be up in Bronzefield Prison, that would. So how do you reckon your Keisha’s gonna do, playing mummy to the little ones?”
“I have no comment,” Mercy said.
“I’d like a word with my client.” This from Ms. Abbott.
Lynley rose, switching off the recorder that was documenting their interview. He said they would wait in the corridor, and he opened the door for Havers to precede him out of the room.
Once the door was closed behind them, Havers said to him, “She’s playing for time. She’s holding together, but you ask me, she knows she’s at the end of her rope when it comes to FGM.”
“Possibly. But I daresay her solicitor will be telling her the signed statement we’ve got merely constitutes someone’s word against her own. We could study the films and find Monifa Bankole on CCTV entering the clinic with her daughter to support her written statement, but when it comes to what occurred inside, we’d be down to what a jury will believe. And we can’t set aside the fact that Monifa might yet decide it’s in her best interest to back away from what she wrote, claiming her statement was coerced. Her children are missing and, as far as she’s concerned, we’re the people who know where they are and are keeping the information from her.”
“Forget FGM, then. What about Teo’s getting the clinic closed down? She’s got motive in spades, Mercy Hart.”
“She does. But that’s the beginning and end of what we have on her, Barbara. If she says nothing, we’re down to CCTV film of Mercy and Adaku talking. You and I know that amounts to very little unless we put her at the crime scene or find the murder weapon with her DNA on it.”
The door to the interview room opened then. Astolat Abbott stepped into the corridor. Mercy Hart, the solicitor informed them politely, had taken her decision, so there would be no need for further conversation at this time. She was ready to be remanded to Bronzefield Prison.
CHELSEA
CENTRAL LONDON
Their destination was a leafy canyon of a neighbourhood, its north-west side occupied by tall brick houses, all attached to each other, all fronted by shining iron railings to prevent passersby from tumbling into the area in front of their basement windows. Its south-east side was less distinguished looking and indifferent to a uniform appearance, with its mishmash of construction materials and building styles. Both sides were lined with dusty-leafed trees, though. Where there were window boxes, nearly all contained flowers, many of which were drooping in the heat.
Monifa couldn’t imagine herself in this place, let alone her children. When she got out of the car, it was into utter silence save for the twittering of birds and someone coughing beyond the open window of the house in front of which DS Nkata had parked his car. Monifa said to him, “What is this place?” and when he told her it was called Chelsea, she’d never heard of it other than as the name of a football team. And that was only something she knew because of Tani’s devotion to Tottenham.
The sergeant led her to one of the tall brick houses, this one on a street corner. There were window boxes here, planted with red geraniums on all three sides of the ground floor bay, and there were four steps up to a sheltered porch. A tall umbrella stand stood to one side of the door, the curving handles of its contents attesting to the fact that the house’s occupants didn’t expect these to be snatched up by a thief strolling along the pavement.