Michael Kirkpatrick, juror ten, had been annoying and uncooperative, but at no point did Henley want him to be the copycat’s fifth victim. When she arrived at Michael Kirkpatrick’s home in Streatham, there were a group of officers passing the baton of blame between them. Ramouter had just taken his dinner out of the microwave when Henley had called with the update. It had taken a lot of convincing before he agreed to stay where he was.
Chris Snyder walked up to Henley. ‘Didn’t mean to drag you out.’
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘I got a message on Friday morning from the UKPPS that Kirkpatrick was no longer consenting to personal protection. I made my position clear that I was not authorising the withdrawal of his protection, but I don’t know… There were crossed wires somewhere.’
‘Crossed wires? Chris, this was a fuck-up. Plain and simple. You lot were supposed to be keeping an eye on him,’ said Henley.
‘I know,’ said Chris sullenly. ‘Is there any news on the others?’
‘Naomi Spencer is still in Vietnam. Hamilton Bryce is safe but they’ve relocated him as a precaution. Officers are with Naylor at his home, and Jessica Talbot and her family are in a safe house; only Dominic Pine is unaccounted for.’ Henley stopped and took a breath. She could feel the enormity of the case on her shoulders.
‘Talk me through what happened,’ Henley said as they stopped at the door.
‘No one has seen Michael Kirkpatrick since he left Leadenhall Market on Friday night at around 8.45 p.m.,’ explained Chris. ‘According to his colleague, Scott Boxtree, they both left work at around quarter to six and went for just the one. He thinks that they had had about three pints and then they both walked to London Bridge. Boxtree got the Tube to Walthamstow and he assumed that Michael went home.’
The house consisted of six flats spread over three floors. Michael Kirkpatrick lived in Flat B on the ground floor. The door was wide open and there were officers inside. At the other end of the corridor an officer was talking to a Chinese woman who looked angry.
‘That’s his girlfriend, Anna. She was away on a business trip and says that she spoke to him two nights ago. She tried to call him yesterday, but he didn’t pick up, so she called him at work—’
‘And he wasn’t there?’ Henley took the plastic gloves from one of the uniformed officers standing by the door.
‘No. She called Scott and he said that Michael hadn’t turned up. We’ve checked with his line manager and he didn’t call in sick. She got home after nine and saw this.’ Chris pointed towards Michael’s flat.
Henley checked the front door. There were no signs of forced entry. A pile of letters and takeaway menus were stacked neatly on a side table, but that was the only sign of order in the flat. There was a large green stain on the floor with broken glass nearby. The framed Liverpool football shirt had a large crack in the glass and the coffee table was at an odd angle in the centre of the room as though it had been roughly pushed aside.
‘Where’s CSI?’ Henley asked.
‘I’ve been chasing. It’s been one of those mad nights. But we should be getting someone down here within the hour.’
‘Did any neighbours report a disturbance?’
Chris shook his head. ‘Nothing reported. The couple in the flat opposite said that they only really saw Michael on the weekend. Passing ships and all that.’
In her mind’s eye Henley could see what had happened. Someone had surprised Michael at the door and pushed him through. Judging by the shattered flowerpot and soil spread across the floor, there had been a struggle. From what Henley remembered, Michael Kirkpatrick looked as though he could handle himself. He had definitely fought back. As she examined the dirt on the floor, two things caught her eye. A footmark and an orange cap, about two inches long. It looked like the cover for a syringe.
‘Do me a favour. You remember Anthony? Our senior forensic investigator,’ Henley said to Chris.
‘How could I forget. We still use him. First on my list. Want me to call him?’
‘If we can’t get the locals to pull their fingers out then call Anthony. I’m sure that the NCA must have some influence.’
‘Miss working with you,’ Chris said as he pulled out his phone.
Henley looked back at the scene. Michael Kirkpatrick had definitely been taken from home. If he was going out for his run at around 6 a.m., then that would have fitted with the time that Pine had turned his MDT off. In seven hours, Michael Kirkpatrick would have been gone for forty-eight hours. If Henley had to guess, it would be another twenty-four hours before he was found in pieces somewhere in south-east London.
A light drizzle had begun to fall outside. A woman was smoking on the doorstep of the house next door. There were others, even at this hour, looking out from windows at the commotion. Henley walked over to a young PC. He straightened himself as they all did when he noticed her police ID.
‘Can I help you, ma’am?’ he said.
‘Yeah, you can. Have you spoken to any of the neighbours?’ Henley asked.
‘Yes, we did. PC Ogbanna and I spoke to the neighbours. No one saw anything or provided anything useful, but Ms Landry—’
He pointed to the woman standing on the doorstep smoking. She looked directly at Henley before throwing the cigarette butt onto the ground and going back inside.
‘She said that she knew Michael Kirkpatrick, but only in passing. He had helped her with her buggy a few times. She says that yesterday morning after 6 a.m. she had stepped out to have a cigarette. Her husband doesn’t like her smoking in the house and the baby was sleeping.’
‘What did she see?’ asked Henley.
‘An ambulance. Not a big one but the one that’s like—’
‘Like a car.’
‘Yeah, an estate. She said that she didn’t take much notice. She saw it pull in next door but then the baby woke up and she went back in.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Not really. Just said that she thought it was odd because she didn’t hear any sirens.’