The grainy black and white CCTV footage projected on the screen of the conference room showed a young man making his way down a deserted night-time alleyway with the exaggerated care of the seriously inebriated. From the rain-wet cobbles illuminated by the streetlight, Detective Sergeant Phyllida Flyte knew the guy was in the labyrinth of alleys and Victorian warehouses around Camden Lock, which housed the area’s hipster bars and music venues. He paused and turned, unsteady on his feet, as an older man, tall and heavy-set, hove into view, holding out what must be a cigarette, clearly asking for a light. They appeared to chat amicably as the first guy groped drunkenly in his pocket for a lighter before handing it to the bigger man.
Then, a sudden blur of bodies. When the image came back into focus the big man had the drunk in a headlock, his forearm wrapped around his throat, half lifting him off the ground. The victim’s mouth gaped, just a black hole at this distance. He made a few pathetic attempts to bat at the restraining arm, but after thirty seconds his knees buckled and his attacker lowered him to the ground. The big guy scoped the street, left, right, before bending to rifle through his pockets. Seconds later, he strolled off, without a backward glance at his victim left crumpled on the cobbles like a pile of dirty washing.
DCI Mike Steadman reached out to his laptop and rewound the CCTV footage to the moment of the attack.
‘This lad, Harry Poppleton, got unlucky,’ he told the members of Camden’s Major Crimes Unit gathered around the long table. ‘The compression of his neck did some serious damage. He wasn’t found for another ten minutes and he’s been in a coma in Camden General for the past week. Dean, what’s the latest?’
DS Dean Willets said, ‘Yeah, guv. According to the MRI scan, the headlock fractured a bone in his throat . . . the er . . .’
‘Hyoid.’ Flyte didn’t realise she’d spoken out loud until she got a death stare from Willets. Her cheeks flamed and she heard her mother’s scolding voice ‘I think we’ve heard enough from you, Clever Clogs.’ As the new girl on the team she had to remember to watch her step.
‘As I was about to say,’ Willets went on, ‘the hyoid bone. According to the medics, the fracture caused swelling that closed his airway, starving him of oxygen. His brain scans show barely any activity and the family have been told not to expect recovery. So it’s already attempted murder and once they’ve’ – he flicked an imaginary switch upwards – ‘it’ll be murder one.’
Flyte resisted the urge to roll her eyes: Dean Willets watched too many American crime dramas.
‘Thanks, Dean.’ Steadman sent a searching gaze around the table, pausing to meet everyone’s eyes individually. ‘This Hugger Mugger, as the press are inevitably calling him, is a menace. Has he used this tactic before? The CCTV only gives us a partial facial to work with but he looks to be about my size.’ Steadman glanced down at his own frame with a wry smile. Standing over six foot tall and wide-shouldered, he was big all over without being fat. ‘Dean, come here a minute. You’re what five eight?’
‘Five nine, boss,’ said Willets in a mock-aggrieved voice, going over to him.
‘It’s the extra inch that counts,’ said DC Nathan Cassidy – Willets’ most loyal sidekick – to general sniggering.
‘OK, enough of that.’ Steadman frowned, getting to his feet. ‘Anyway, you’re more or less the same height as the victim.’
Willets turned his back to Steadman, allowing him to put his beefy forearm loosely around his neck and make as if to lift him off the floor. ‘So the guy we’re looking for is someone around my height – six foot two,’ said Steadman, releasing Willets and nodding towards the CCTV image. ‘His build makes him fairly distinctive. Phyllida, could you handle the press on this? Give the Gazette the best image of this guy, see if we can raise any witnesses.’
Willets was made the investigating officer on the case which was officially dubbed Operation Palmerston – Steadman liked to name ops after former prime ministers.
After everyone stood to head back to their desks, Steadman caught Flyte at the doorway.
‘Phyllida, I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately. I’ve been meaning to ask how you’re settling in?’ He held the door into the corridor open for her – an old-fashioned gesture that might make some women bridle, but one of which she approved.
‘Oh fine, thanks,’ she said, thinking this a more politic response than the truth. She was the lone female detective on the team that comprised four fellow DSs and three DCs; the only other female being a civilian officer. The atmosphere she’d encountered in her first few weeks here had been mostly polite suspicion with a dash of borderline hostility.
He sent her a perceptive look. ‘It can’t be easy joining a team who’ve been working together as long as these guys have. You do know that was a big factor in favour of hiring you? I wanted to break up the boys’ club . . . not that you weren’t eminently qualified regardless. Two murder cases sewn up in less than a year over at CID!’ He sent her an admiring look. ‘That’s quite a record.’
‘Thanks, boss’ – feeling a warmth climbing her cheeks at the praise. Steadman was in his fifties but unlike some male cops of that vintage he managed to be friendly without ever behaving unprofessionally. He had never asked whether she had a boyfriend, gone on about her ‘looking nice today’, or ever directed his conversation at her chest.
He paused outside the door to the main office before lowering his voice. ‘Listen, Phyllida, I’m well aware they can be a somewhat . . . unreconstructed bunch, but it’s ninety-five per cent bravado. You’ll soon find out they’re all good coppers.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, I need you to pop over to Camden Mortuary, take a look at an unidentified floater pulled out of the canal this morning. I got a call from your old boss over at CID. He’s two detectives down since you left so he had no one available to attend the scene. There are no suspicious circs – probably an unlucky drunk who fell in – but I said we’d help out, so that he can say a detective attended.’
‘Of course.’ She pulled a can-do smile to hide her irritation: she hadn’t joined Major Crimes to cover CID’s back on a routine non-sus death.
‘It’ll only take you half an hour and you can hand it straight back to them afterwards,’ he said kindly before turning to go. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get your own murder case soon enough.’
She realised she’d probably be seeing Cassie Raven again, for the first time in months. And her new job would doubtless present many more opportunities to attend the mortuary. The thought stirred up a muddle of emotions. And although muddle was something that Flyte abhorred, she had to admit that the prospect of seeing the tattooed morgue girl prompted a buzz of anticipation.