Daniel Kennedy. Thirty-six years old. In a relationship. Lived in London. From London. The profile photograph on his Facebook page showed a smiling man standing on top of a quad bike with all his limbs intact. His criminal record from the Police National Computer showed a man with two aliases and four convictions: possession of Class A & B drugs, robbery when he was sixteen and most recently, GBH.
‘It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’ Ramouter flicked over the pages of the report. He had toned down the back-to-school look of yesterday. Polished shoes swapped for black trainers. Suit jacket, but no tie.
‘What makes you wonder?’ Henley swerved to avoid a cyclist who appeared out of nowhere.
‘Who Kennedy must have pissed off to end up in pieces on the bank of the Thames. He got an eighteen-month sentence for GBH. Came out of prison in 2018, completed his licence period three months ago and then found himself on bail for an affray and ABH.’
Henley had asked herself the same thing when she had lain awake in bed, Rob snoring next to her with the sweet, intoxicating scent of cannabis still on his breath.
She pulled the car into the driveway of a three-floor Victorian house. The grass and bushes were overgrown, and the row of green wheelie bins were overflowing. Two residents sat on the low wall, smoking their cigarettes and eyeing up Henley as she parked between a white transit van and red Mini.
‘It doesn’t look like a bail hostel,’ Ramouter said, checking that his warrant card was visibly around his neck.
‘What were you expecting?’ Henley cut the engine and took another look at the two men on the wall before opening the car door.
Ramouter shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s not the tidiest but I thought it would be… grittier.’
‘Disappointed that the residents aren’t shooting up in the front garden?’
‘No… but…’
Henley leaned over the roof of her car. ‘You have been to a bail hostel before?’
‘Actually, no.’ Ramouter had the decency to look a bit embarrassed. ‘First time for everything, eh?’
‘Hmm. Don’t embarrass me,’ Henley warned, walking towards the reinforced front door.
‘Sentinel have been here twice looking for him.’ Beryl took a long drag from her e-cigarette leaving behind her neon pink lipstick on the vape as Henley and Ramouter signed their names in the visitors’ book. ‘To be honest, I was shocked to see them at all. You can just about rely on them to come here and put the tag on in the first place. So, what’s he done? I never did like him. Not that I really like any of them.’
‘When was the last time that you saw Mr Kennedy?’ Henley asked, ignoring Beryl’s question.
Beryl closed the book and placed it under the counter. She disappeared and returned with a bunch of keys in her hand. ‘Let’s see. I don’t work weekends and Mondays. I was off sick on Friday, so the last time I was here was Thursday and I only do the day shift, 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. and I don’t recall seeing him then. I think the last time I saw Kennedy was maybe Tuesday.’
‘How long was he here before Sentinel came and fitted the tag?’
‘He was here for at least two weeks before they came. Bloody stairs, he was on the third floor.’ Beryl tutted. She walked up the stairs with Henley and Ramouter close behind.
‘Was he keeping to his curfew before they came?’
‘Actually, he was. Pretty much kept his head down. He was sharing for the first week, but his roommate had a fight with the crackhead in room nine and got remanded. So, he had his own room.’ Beryl selected a key from the bunch and opened the door.
‘Before you go,’ Henley asked, ‘did Daniel have any visitors?’
‘No visitors are allowed but that’s not to say that he didn’t have any. We’ve got CCTV. The recordings get deleted every thirty days, but you can check that if you like.’
Ramouter put a hand to his nose as he stepped inside. The room smelt of rotting food and stale clothes. There were two single beds on opposite sides of the room with a small wardrobe next to each. Henley opened the window as wide as it could go. The table was littered with empty takeaway boxes, beer cans and half a bottle of cheap whisky. A bottle of soured milk was on the windowsill. Tiny black flies buzzed around an orange net bag of mouldering clementines.
Henley donned the pair of latex gloves she kept in her pocket. She bent down and picked up a carrier bag. It was filled with junk mail, a court form confirming his bail conditions, his next appointment with his GP and letters from his solicitors.
‘This is disgusting,’ Ramouter said as he walked around the room. ‘How can anyone live like this? Whatever happened, it didn’t happen here, but it smells like he hasn’t been here for at least a week.’
‘I’ll need you to speak to the other residents,’ said Henley. ‘Explain to them that we’re not asking them to grass, all we want to know is when they last saw him and if they spoke to him. Then we can take a look at the CCTV. The footage from outside the house may be more useful.’
‘No problem. So, we’re done here.’
‘It looks like—’ Henley paused as something caught her eye near the foot of the bed. She pushed aside a pair of boxer shorts and picked up an iPhone.
‘That looks new,’ said Ramouter. ‘Why would he leave a brand-new phone behind?’
‘Have you got any evidence bags?’
Ramouter checked his pocket and shook his head. ‘Nowt. Sorry. I must have left them in the car.’
Henley peeled off the glove from her left hand, wrapped it around the iPhone and handed it to Ramouter before reaching again under the bed. Her fingers touched something hard and cracked. She knew without seeing it what it was. She stood up and showed Ramouter a small, circular box attached to a strap. There was a visible crack on the black plastic.
‘He cut off his tag?’ Ramouter said as Henley turned it over in her gloved hand.
‘Looks like he stepped on it too. He leaves his phone and removes his tag. What the hell was he up to?’
Ramouter took the broken tag from Henley as her own phone began to ring. Stanford’s mobile number flashed on the screen.
‘You need to get down to Ladywell Fields,’ Stanford said without giving Henley a chance to say hello.
‘What for?’
‘I think we’ve found our girl.’