By the time Hadley had the team assembled she had spoken briefly to Alistair McKeon, the detective superintendent with overall responsibility for the north-west unit of Homicide Command, and he had left two messages on her phone, as yet unanswered. All, Hadley thought, in good time. First, let’s get the ducks in a row.
The room was stuffy, windows closed, tables and desks at odd angles. A large whiteboard, currently blank save for Anthony Winter’s name, stood alongside a large-screen television, also blank but for reflecting the faces of the assembled team. Half a dozen of them, mostly familiar, only one, Mark Foster, a young DC recently transferred in from uniform, still pretty much an unknown quantity.
Howard Dean and Terry Mitchell, heads together, arguing, no doubt, the respective merits and demerits of Spurs and Arsenal, the old north London rivalry. Alice Atkins, some fifteen years Hadley’s junior and seeing her as a role model, keen and conscientious almost to a fault. Richard Cresswell, the oldest of the group, much of his career, before he resigned early, spent in uniform; after an unsuccessful attempt to set up a landscape-gardening business with his brother, he’d rejoined the force relatively recently.
With Chris Phillips occasionally chipping in, Hadley laid out the facts as they were then known. The victim, Anthony Winter, a fifty-one-year-old artist, had been found dead in his Kentish Town studio early that morning; an artist with, apparently, something of a reputation, so they could expect more media attention than usual. Cause of death, awaiting confirmation, most likely blunt-force trauma to the head; the potential murder weapon, a pair of old-fashioned handcuffs — manacles — which had been found near the body attached to a length of chain and were currently undergoing tests. Time of death, at a best guess, anywhere between Saturday night and Sunday morning.
‘There are no obvious signs,’ Hadley said, ‘of a break-in at the studio, so the assumption for now is whoever was responsible was known to Winter in some way or other — which could mean known well, as in mother or lover, could mean someone from Deliveroo.’
A brief smile, there and then gone.
Chris Phillips got to his feet.
‘We’re waiting on the usual RIPA authorisations before starting the process of retrieving call data and email records from the laptop and mobile phone found in the studio, along with compiling an Internet search history. As well as the studio where he worked, Winter had a flat in a mansion block between Gospel Oak and Chalk Farm. We’ll see what a search turns up there, but, my guess, at least one more computer, in all probability a landline phone. More to add to the mix.’
‘Okay, Chris, thanks. Richard, keep an eye on how that’s progressing. Give CIU a nudge if needs be.’
‘And Chris, you’ll liaise with the Coroner’s Office. Postmortem results.’
‘Right, boss.’
‘Mitch, chase up SOCO, the forensics. Anything potentially useful, prints, whatever, check it through HOLMES, keep me informed.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Howie, there’s some CCTV out there, traffic cameras on the main road certainly, ANPR, I’m not sure what else. But it would be nice to think, the heaviest surveillance in Western Europe, we’ve got something covering exits and entrances.’
‘Right, boss. I’ll get to it.’
‘One more thing worth noting,’ Hadley said, ‘might be relevant, maybe not, but last Thursday evening Winter was victim of an attack at a gallery in Shoreditch showing his work. Punched and knocked to the ground. There are bits and pieces of this on social media. Some video. The man responsible seems to have had some kind of grievance about Winter using his daughter as a model in his paintings. And, having seen one of them, I’m not too surprised. So, Alice, get yourself down there, find out what you can. Trace him, the assailant, and it could be that’s all we need, look no further.’
‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’ Mitchell said, half under his breath.
‘Wouldn’t it just. Meantime, Mark . . .’
‘Thought you’d forgotten me, ma’am.’
‘Could I ever?’
Mark Foster blushed.
‘You started a history degree, didn’t you? Chance to put all that research work into practice. See what you can dig up on Winter’s private life, family, relationships, anything nasty lurking in the woodshed.’
‘Okay, everyone, as you all know, we’re understaffed and overstretched and about to be even more so, which means working all the hours it takes without as much as a whisper of overtime. But then, I know that would be the last thing on your minds . . .’
Groans, laughter . . .
Hadley stepped outside into the corridor just as a call came in on her mobile. ‘Yes, sir. Sorry I missed you earlier . . .’