Flyte managed to persuade Cassie to stay in the undercroft: at least there were hiding places there if things should turn nasty. The homeless guy’s description of the man on Cassie’s boat could fit Willets, but it was so imprecise it could also fit half the men in the office.
Including Seb. A thought she pushed away.
Approaching the lock-up Cassie had pointed out, she marched up to the double doors, leaking a sliver of light, and rapped out an authoritative knock. It sounded more confident than she felt. Her heart was beating so fast she could hear the swish-swish of blood in her ears.
Silence from within.
‘Police. Open up.’
A moment later the lock was turned and one of the doors opened a crack and the face of Dean Willets peered out. ‘What the fu—?’ he said.
‘Let me in, Dean.’ In a voice that brooked no opposition.
A brief hesitation before he opened the door just wide enough for her to step inside. The light here wasn’t as bright as the orange glare outside and she blinked as her eyes adjusted. A large portable lamp of the kind workmen used stood on a shelf at the far end, but the light it emitted didn’t reach into the corners of the empty garage.
‘What’s going on, Dean?’ she asked, looking around.
‘I believe that Sean Kavanagh’s body was stored in a freezer for eight years in one of these lock-ups,’ he said. ‘In fact, this lock-up.’
Flyte was taken aback. That was her line.
‘What were you doing on board Cassie Raven’s boat around a week ago?’
He pulled a sarcastic face. ‘Er, interviewing her?’
‘Before that – when she wasn’t at home?’
Willets took a step towards her. ‘What are you saying exactly?’ A threatening edge in his voice.
During her incarceration in the freezer, Flyte had tried to nail what had happened nine years ago after the homophobic Willets had caught fellow police officer Sean Kavanagh having sex in Abney Park – had finally faced the unthinkable. Their paths had surely crossed again around a year later, an encounter that had ended in Sean’s death.
Before she could decide whether to confront him head-on, there came a brisk knock at the lock-up door and someone pushed it open. DCI Steadman.
‘Evening, guv,’ said Willets. ‘You must have made good time.’
‘The A406 was clear for once. Evening, Phyllida. I didn’t know this was a group effort. Good to see you two working as a team.’
‘Hello,’ she said, blinking in confusion. ‘I thought you were in Birmingham.’
‘I got back this afternoon.’ Turning to Willets, he said, ‘This better be worth it – I passed up a nice bottle of Medoc and my wife’s boeuf bourguignon to come here.’ He looked around ‘So where’s this freezer . . . ?’
Willets shot her a triumphant look before taking the lamp off the shelf and angling it towards the floor.
Steadman bent down, hands on his thighs and Flyte dropped to a crouch beside him.
Willets pointed out a rectangular outline of cleaner concrete on the floor. ‘Looks to me like something was stood here for a long time. A chest freezer, for instance.’
Flyte bent her head closer to the floor and sniffed. ‘Bleach. Somebody’s been trying to clean up.’
Steadman nodded. ‘Dean, care to share your working hypothesis?’
‘Sure thing.’ Willets had regained some of his usual swagger. ‘Somebody stored Sean’s body here but was forced to move it when the demolition became imminent. I’ve asked the council for the list of people who rented these garages.’
Which Flyte knew would only reveal the names of ‘official’ tenants, when it was common practice to sublet lock-ups on the QT to all and sundry. But her mind was struggling to keep up with the way events were unfolding. If Willets really had hidden Sean’s body here, why on earth would he call in the boss? Had he realised she was onto him, and decided his only hope of regaining control of the situation was to get ahead of the game?
‘How did you know which lock-up to check out?’ asked Flyte. ‘And how did you get in?’
‘I tried them all but it was the only one that wasn’t locked,’ he said, shrugging.
Or the only one you had the key to.
‘This is great work, Dean,’ said Steadman, straightening up. ‘Let’s get forensics down here to properly check this place out, and try to find that freezer – if it’s still in the vicinity.’
Flyte sneaked a look at Willets. Of course, his presence here would immediately explain any of his DNA turning up in the lock-up. But there might still be recoverable traces on the freezer out in the undercroft where Sean had been stored. She heard Pops’s voice saying ‘Keep your powder dry, Philly.’
Pulling out his phone, Steadman tapped at the screen.
‘Marcus? Steadman here . . .’ He chuckled. ‘I know, no peace for the wicked . . . Listen up. I need you to send a couple of uniforms to secure a scene, on the canal . . . Right . . . And a forensic team for 0600 hours.’
After giving the coordinates of the estate, he hung up. Turning to Flyte a look of concern came over his face. ‘Phyllida, you look done in. Go home and get some sleep, you can take over tomorrow first thing.’
As Willets went to set the lamp back on its shelf the upper rim of light flitted across something on a higher shelf. In that split second an image imprinted itself on Flyte’s retina. The shape of something long and slim at the back of the shelf, loosely covered with a tarpaulin. Not quite fully covered. The inch or two she’d glimpsed looked an awful lot like the business end of a gun barrel.
Fighting to maintain her outward calm, she was remembering Willets’ rabbit-shooting trips to Essex farms. Whatever he was playing at, he clearly couldn’t be left here alone, at liberty to ditch the firearm and give the freezer the deep clean that must now be his urgent priority.
Steadman was turning to go. Whatever the risk to her career she had to speak up now.
‘Boss . . . Sorry, but I need to ask Dean some questions while you’re here.’
A look of irritation crossed Steadman’s face. ‘Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’
‘No. I’m afraid not.’
Steadman made a weary gesture, as if giving her the floor.
She turned to meet Willets’ disbelieving scowl. ‘It’s come to my attention that you ran a game at Hackney nick, back when you were a beat cop,’ she said. ‘A competition to see who could nick the greatest number of gay men having sex in public.’ He gave her a death stare, but made no attempt to deny it. ‘Nine years ago, a year before Sean Kavanagh disappeared, you caught him while he was off duty having sex in Abney Park. I suggest that you encountered him again the following year. An encounter that ended up with him in a freezer.’
‘Phyllida . . . ?!’ Steadman was looking at her like she’d lost her marbles.
‘Total rubbish,’ Dean scoffed, but she could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
‘That first time, he said he was a cop and you let him off – not wanting a fellow officer, even a gay one, to lose his job. Which was a risky thing for you to do.’ Now for a leap into guesswork. ‘You must have been furious when you caught him doing it again. It would be understandable if you lost your rag and hit him.’
Dean broke in, jabbing his finger at her. ‘It’s not the first time you’ve thrown bullshit accusations—’
Steadman waved a hand to quell his outburst before turning to her with an admiring look. ‘You’re a smart cookie, Phyllida, so I’m not surprised you’ve unearthed some bits and bobs, even if you they have led you down a blind alley.’
She blinked, thrown by his comment.
‘But now you’re part of the team I’m going to level with you.’ Steadman paused for a moment. ‘You’re right about the distasteful game Dean here used to play at Hackney all those years ago. I was patrol sergeant at the time and as soon as it came to my attention I put a stop to it.’
He looked over at Willets who had dropped his head, staring at the floor.
‘And it’s true that Dean did nick Sean Kavanagh in the Abney Park public toilets. I happened to run into them when Dean brought him back to the nick. Dean got a call on the radio and Sean asked me for a word. He told me he was Job – right next door at Finsbury Park nick, too.’ He sighed. ‘As you know, even giving him a caution would have meant automatic dismissal. The offence had taken place at two in the morning, with no members of the public around to see him misbehaving. And so I took the view that it was a victimless crime.’
He scanned her face. ‘I told Sean to get lost and sin no more, and made sure the arrest didn’t get entered on the computer.’
Sweet Jesus.
Flyte was aghast. Officers could use their discretion in making arrests under Outraging Public Decency legislation, depending on whether there might be members of the public nearby whose decency might be outraged. So Willets had arguably been overzealous arresting Sean in the first place – probably keen to bag an arrest for his stupid game. Had it been her, she’d probably have sent Sean off with a flea in his ear and a clean record. But once he had actually been arrested? It stuck in her craw to learn that Steadman – the patrol sergeant, no less – had intervened to cover it up. Police officers couldn’t and shouldn’t bend the rules, especially not to protect one of their own.
Something occurred to her. Why would Willets carry on with his gay-hunting game after getting a dressing-down from Steadman – his patrol sergeant and his hero? Her scenario, in which Willets caught Sean reoffending a year later, felt suddenly shaky.
‘So why do you think Sean was killed?’ she asked Steadman.
He lifted his big shoulders in a shrug. ‘Either he had a falling-out with his steroid suppliers, or one of his lovers. But finding this place is a bloody good step towards us finding the perpetrator.’
Maybe he was right. Then she remembered Willets’ reaction on seeing the details of the Canadian bank account from which Bethany had received £150k in hush money after Sean’s disappearance. It had clearly meant something to him, but how could he have lain hands on that kind of money?
‘Can I get back to my dinner now?’ said Steadman, before turning to go – evidently considering the matter closed.
Flyte turned to Willets. ‘Who is Ms N. Toussaint?’ she asked.
Dean’s alarmed gaze swivelled to Steadman.
A cascade of clicks in Flyte’s brain, as if some elaborate mechanism was coming to life. Seb describing the glut of rabbits produced by Dean’s shooting trips out to Essex. Which would have needed freezing. Steadman’s wife – who made a mean rabbit casserole and was French.
Not French-French. French-Canadian.