“Close to the clinic?”
“Some number of buildings away, from what I can tell. On the High Street but not terribly close to the clinic.”
“And you’re certain . . . ?”
“Certain that it’s DS Bontempi? Oh yes. I’m totally certain, sir.”
The footage was high quality, identifying itself as having come from one of the Met’s security cameras. DC Taylor had stopped it and refocused it on two figures in a conversation. They spoke for two minutes and forty-three seconds, DC Taylor said. This particular still shot of their talking was fifty-two seconds into it.
DS Bontempi, operating as Adaku Obiaka, was unmistakable not only by her clothing and her headgear but also by her height and stature. She was caught in the act of speaking to the other figure in the footage, another woman. She was dressed in black, she was much smaller than the detective sergeant, and she was white.
Barbara leaned into the screen as did Lynley. Lynley asked DC Taylor to move the footage slowly forward, which she was able to do. A woman with a toddler in a pushchair glided by, as did three men dressed for a building site. Teo Bontempi and her companion moved out of their way, and in doing so the companion’s face was captured perfectly by the CCTV camera.
Barbara drew a breath and said, “Bloody hell in a bun.”
“Do you recognise her?” Lynley asked.
“That’s Philippa Weatherall,” she said.
15 AUGUST
BRIXTON
SOUTH LONDON
The plan for the day was, as before, that Monifa would go with Alice to the café. There were several recipes that interested Detective Sergeant Nkata’s mother, and she believed they would be popular with those of her customers who were African born. She had the ingredients for at least four snack dishes. They could, she told Monifa, begin with alkaki. She revealed that in anticipation of this, late the previous afternoon while Monifa was visiting her children, she had prepared the wheat and the yeast, and the mixture had sat—covered—for the required ten hours. She happily continued, saying that she also wanted to learn how to make donkwa. She’d read about its popularity as a street food, and since Alice N’s offered takeaway food, she believed this too would be something that would sell quite well.
Monifa had no doubts about Alice’s enthusiasm. Indeed, she could almost picture herself joining Alice N’s as a permanent part of the establishment. Alice had, after all, suggested cooking lessons as a way for Monifa to establish a new life for herself and her children. But Alice was of a different culture, so things that seemed simple and logical to her were neither simple nor logical for a woman like Monifa.
Still, Monifa agreed to the plan. There was little else she could do at this juncture. She was in a waiting mode and had no power to change that. She did say, however, “These are so simple, alkaki and donkwa. You do not need me to guide you, Alice.”
“But I want you to guide me,” Alice responded. “Tabby and her mum will watch as well. We’ll sell them from the market stall at first and if they can be made at home—”
“They can. They are so very simple.”
“—then Tabby’s mum can have them ready when she opens the stall in the mornings. Jewel, is it safe for Monifa to be at the café today?”
“Long ’s Abeo’s being held, yeah.” He was just coming out of the bedroom Monifa was using, where he’d excused himself from their breakfast to dress for the day since Benjamin Nkata was working an extra shift in less than an hour and had taken up occupancy of the bathroom. “But charges need to be filed to keep him there, innit.” The detective sergeant gave Monifa a meaningful look. He said to her, “We need to talk that over, you ’n’ me.”
Monifa had known this would be coming. She was the only person Abeo had touched at the St. Jameses’ house. Even if she made a report, though, she had no idea if Abeo would be charged for what he’d done to her, his wife. Since his assault of her had ended within seconds, was there truly anything sufficient to keep him out of her way and away from Tani and Simisola? And if she did agree to make a report against her husband, what would he do in return? And who would suffer afterwards?
She nodded, though, and kept her thoughts to herself. She said, “Yes. I understand.”
Nkata smiled and nodded in turn, then said, “Tha’s good. Now, have you shown Mum those pictures of your kids? I ’spect she’d like to see ’em, specially Simisola,” and to his mother, “Deborah St. James—you recall her, yes?—she did three pictures that Monifa’s got. I want to see ’em ’s well.”