downward side of her skull was similarly shattered and the girlstared along the ground through one lifeless, blood-clotted eye. Not for the first time Stark was struck by the surreal stillness of life extinguished, the repellent, baffling polarity between the animate and ex-animate.
Dixon put one hand over his mouth and turned away, his face now white.
‘Shit.’ Fran sighed.
Marcus winced sympathetically. ‘Someone you know?’
Groombridge closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. ‘Stacey Appleton.’
Fran swore again, then turned to Dixon and Stark. ‘Right. You two work with uniform door to door. Someone saw something. Someone heard something. Someone
knows
something. Go.’
According to uniform, the proprietor of the embattled off-licence had heard a scream around midnight, so Stark went to talk to him first. A Sikh man with large calloused hands, he answered his questions in imperfect English scattered with jarring South London idioms and studied brevity. He had heard the noise, gone downstairs into the shop to check all was well and, finding no intruders, had gone back to bed. He had seen and heard nothing else until the blue lights arrived in the morning, he said emphatically. His wooden smile and anxious glances at the door suggested he could not wait for Stark to be gone. His wife hovered timidly behind him, saying nothing. Stark tried a smile. ‘Did you see or hear anything?’ he asked.
Her husband barked something in his native tongue, Punjabi most likely, and the wife retreated from view. ‘My wife speaks little English, forgive us.’
Something in these words made Stark doubt them but he thanked the man all the same. Outside he glanced up at movement in the window above the shop. The wife’s face stared down for a moment, before she let the net curtain fall back. They were frightened.
And they were not alone. Other residents also reported hearing the scream around midnight, but they had long given up peering out into the night at disturbances. No one had yet reported seeing anything, and if they knew anything they weren’t letting on. Fear hung over the estate, like smog. It was truly depressing.
At least it corresponded with Marcus’s preliminary time of deathestimated from body temperature. Suicide, accident or foul play, at around midnight the previous night, while officers of the law revelled or slept, one of their suspects, their best potential witness, had met her end.
‘How’d the mother take it?’ Williams asked Fran.
‘Not well. It’s a shame we couldn’t tell her in the afternoon when she’d be drunk. Stacey was right. Her mother is not at her best sober.’
Informing Stacey’s mother: Stark was heartily glad to have escaped that particular duty during his on-the-job training. He stared up at the tower, wondering which window hid the grief-stricken woman.
‘Did we get her killed?’ asked Dixon.
Stark noticed Fran glance his way. She was wondering the same thing. And bringing Stacey in had been his idea.
Groombridge finished a phone call and waved them over. ‘OK. Stacey’s mobile phone was found smashed a few feet from her body. The memory chip survived. She sent a text at six minutes past twelve last night – “Goodbye Nav I’m sorry”. That’s it. Not much of a suicide note. Let’s go see what Naveen Hussein has to add.’
‘What about the rest of them, Guv? Shall we round them up?’ asked Fran.
Groombridge shook his head. ‘I can’t face another round of their bullshit posturing yet. Not until we know more. Harper, you and the others knock on doors and get the occupants’ whereabouts last night. Let me know who you think is lying.’
‘I can tell you now, Guv,’ muttered Harper. ‘They all are.’
Fran glanced at Stark as they trudged up the concrete stairs and traversed the open balcony corridor to Naveen’s front door, wondering why she’d dragged him along. She had resolved overnight to confess to the DCI that it had been Stark who had
Dixon put one hand over his mouth and turned away, his face now white.
‘Shit.’ Fran sighed.
Marcus winced sympathetically. ‘Someone you know?’
Groombridge closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. ‘Stacey Appleton.’
Fran swore again, then turned to Dixon and Stark. ‘Right. You two work with uniform door to door. Someone saw something. Someone heard something. Someone
knows
something. Go.’
According to uniform, the proprietor of the embattled off-licence had heard a scream around midnight, so Stark went to talk to him first. A Sikh man with large calloused hands, he answered his questions in imperfect English scattered with jarring South London idioms and studied brevity. He had heard the noise, gone downstairs into the shop to check all was well and, finding no intruders, had gone back to bed. He had seen and heard nothing else until the blue lights arrived in the morning, he said emphatically. His wooden smile and anxious glances at the door suggested he could not wait for Stark to be gone. His wife hovered timidly behind him, saying nothing. Stark tried a smile. ‘Did you see or hear anything?’ he asked.
Her husband barked something in his native tongue, Punjabi most likely, and the wife retreated from view. ‘My wife speaks little English, forgive us.’
Something in these words made Stark doubt them but he thanked the man all the same. Outside he glanced up at movement in the window above the shop. The wife’s face stared down for a moment, before she let the net curtain fall back. They were frightened.
And they were not alone. Other residents also reported hearing the scream around midnight, but they had long given up peering out into the night at disturbances. No one had yet reported seeing anything, and if they knew anything they weren’t letting on. Fear hung over the estate, like smog. It was truly depressing.
At least it corresponded with Marcus’s preliminary time of deathestimated from body temperature. Suicide, accident or foul play, at around midnight the previous night, while officers of the law revelled or slept, one of their suspects, their best potential witness, had met her end.
‘How’d the mother take it?’ Williams asked Fran.
‘Not well. It’s a shame we couldn’t tell her in the afternoon when she’d be drunk. Stacey was right. Her mother is not at her best sober.’
Informing Stacey’s mother: Stark was heartily glad to have escaped that particular duty during his on-the-job training. He stared up at the tower, wondering which window hid the grief-stricken woman.
‘Did we get her killed?’ asked Dixon.
Stark noticed Fran glance his way. She was wondering the same thing. And bringing Stacey in had been his idea.
Groombridge finished a phone call and waved them over. ‘OK. Stacey’s mobile phone was found smashed a few feet from her body. The memory chip survived. She sent a text at six minutes past twelve last night – “Goodbye Nav I’m sorry”. That’s it. Not much of a suicide note. Let’s go see what Naveen Hussein has to add.’
‘What about the rest of them, Guv? Shall we round them up?’ asked Fran.
Groombridge shook his head. ‘I can’t face another round of their bullshit posturing yet. Not until we know more. Harper, you and the others knock on doors and get the occupants’ whereabouts last night. Let me know who you think is lying.’
‘I can tell you now, Guv,’ muttered Harper. ‘They all are.’
Fran glanced at Stark as they trudged up the concrete stairs and traversed the open balcony corridor to Naveen’s front door, wondering why she’d dragged him along. She had resolved overnight to confess to the DCI that it had been Stark who had
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