FOUR HOURS HAVE PASSED SINCE Archer and Quinn tried to put the flames out on Josef Olinski’s body. At the time, adrenaline and training had kicked in, forcing Archer to act quickly, and the gravity of what she witnessed hasn’t quite hit her until now. She feels a cold shiver inside, but keeps it to herself as Quinn fumbles with a cable connecting a laptop to the incident-room monitor.
‘Neha is on her way to Agata Olinski’s,’ he says as he shakes the cable plug, ‘and Os is looking into a translator.’
The monitor blinks into life.
‘It seems to be working,’ says Archer.
Quinn opens the CCTV file Os has acquired, and displays the recording of the cabinets being delivered to Charing Cross Road earlier that morning.
Archer watches as the Olinski brothers casually offload the cabinets. One of them has a squat build with short cropped hair. The second is thinner and wears a beanie hat. She recognises him from the picture on Agata’s wall. Josef Olinski. He steps into the glow of the headlamps, removes something from his pocket and writes in it. The diary. He slips it back into his pocket.
‘Unless they’re utter brass-neck psychopaths, they don’t seem like people who are delivering corpses, if you know what I mean,’ observes Quinn.
Archer agrees. Judging by the lack of urgency and jocular banter from the two men, this seems to be just another job for them.
Archer sees Dimitri Novak emerge from the top of Trafalgar Square pushing his dust cart. He watches them for a few moments and then carries on with his job, exactly as he told her. The brothers wheel out the final cabinet, placing it into position just as a police car arrives. One of the officers steps out and speaks to the men. He is a broad man whose belly is a little on the hefty side and who they have since learned is a PC Kevin Simpson.
‘Any word from Simpson?’ asks Archer.
‘He’s on his way in,’ replies Quinn.
Simpson is talking to Josef Olinski and pointing at the cabinets. After a moment, the two men laugh. Olinski leads him to the driver’s door of the van, opens it, pulls out some papers and hands them to Simpson, who scans them briefly before handing them back. Simpson then peers behind the covers of Billy Perrin’s cabinet. Olinski says something and both men laugh again. They shake hands and Simpson leaves. Five minutes after that the brothers pack up and leave the scene. The cabinets sit alone on the street, awaiting their 9 a.m. reveal, their covers fluttering in the early morning breeze. It’s a sombre, chilling picture.
‘That’s it then. Fancy a tea?’ asks Quinn.
‘Yes, please.’
Archer’s phone rings.
Grandad.
‘Hi, Grandad. How are you?’
‘Grace, is that you?’ he asks, his voice sounding tired.
Archer squeezes the phone. ‘Yes, it’s me. I tried to call you this morning.’
‘Oh . . . I don’t remember it ringing.’
‘Maybe you had it on silent.’
‘Yes, perhaps that’s it.’
‘Did you go to mass?’
‘Yes, I was there at eight o’clock. I stayed to help with the candles and clearing up in time for the lunchtime service.’
‘You usually have it on silent when you are at St Patrick’s.’
‘Do I?’
‘Grandad, I’m coming to stay with you for a bit, remember?’
‘Oh yes, I have it marked on my calendar.’ His tone seems brighter. ‘When do you arrive?’
‘Probably later this evening. I started a new job today at Charing Cross Police Station.’
‘That’s a coincidence. My son works there.’
Archer closes her eyes and feels a lump in her throat. ‘Grandad, Dad is no longer with us.’
She hears a heavy sigh.
‘Oh God, Grace, I forget so much these days. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK, Grandad.’
‘I’ve not been right since your grandma . . . I’m sorry, Grace.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘That’s life, Grace . . . that’s life.’
‘Listen, Grandad, I have to go . . .’
‘By the way. I met the new neighbour again today. He’s a smashing lad.’
Archer laughs. ‘That’s good. A lad? How old is he?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. In his thirties, perhaps. Anyway, he’s moved into Eileen’s at number forty-three. You know Eileen passed away?’
‘Yes, last year, wasn’t it?’
‘Was it that long? Anyway, I can’t remember the lad’s name. Jim or Jimmy, I think. Very nice chap.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘I don’t like his missus much. She’s a bit snooty.’
‘I’d better go, Grandad. See you tonight, all being well.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing you. I’ve made up your old room.’
She smiles. ‘Thank you. It’s been a hectic day. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘Understood. Is . . . erm . . . what’s his name . . . coming too?’
‘Dom won’t be there. Just me and you.’
‘That’s nice. See you later, Grace.’
‘Bye, Grandad.’
Archer places her phone on the table top and after a moment lifts her hand from the device. Her grandad has had two small strokes in the past year that have left his memory functioning at seventy per cent efficiency, according to his doctor, who also diagnosed the early onset of dementia. The diagnosis floored Archer. He is her only family. She has begun to notice a sharp decline in his moods and awareness in recent months, which causes her no end of anxiety. He is becoming increasingly confused by everyday stuff, dates and other numbers, especially. He has already forgotten his PIN twice, forcing Archer to write it down for him to carry around in his wallet. Hardly secure, but what choice do they have? Archer lives with her boyfriend, Dominic, in his flat in Little Venice, but has decided to move in with Grandad part time to help look after him. Dominic is furious she made that decision without discussing it first. They argued and Dom laid into her about being consumed by her career and now she was bloody well moving out. That was a low point, however, she knows it’s the right decision for Grandad. She still feels guilty and has managed to smooth things over with Dom, but it’s been a revealing moment in their two-year relationship.
She returns her focus to the case and watches the cabinet delivery again to see if there is anything she has missed, but there is nothing.
She writes a list of the victims on the whiteboard.
Billy Perrin – confirmed
Stan Buxton – confirmed
TBD
Josef Olinski – ?
Herman Olinski – ?
Her phone pings with a text message from Klara.
Archer types back a ‘thank you’ as Quinn shuffles through the glass doors clumsily, carrying two mugs of steaming tea that have been filled to the brim.
‘One milky, one not so milky.’
‘Thank you.’ Archer takes the hot wet mug from him, wipes the bottom with her palm and sets it on the table. ‘That was my contact at the NCA. The phone number is unregistered and has gone dark.’
‘Nice one.’
‘One day and we have five victims. That’s almost more than we have on the investigation team.’
‘Os just got confirmation from a relative, who recognised him from a photo posted this morning on social media. The third victim is a Noel Tipping. Thirty-four years old. Homeless.’
Archer updates the list on the board with the new name.
‘I was also just talking to Mark Beattie in the kitchen. Pierce is going to work on getting us some more officers.’
‘That would be a help, but we need more than boots on the ground. I’m going to request Klara be seconded to the team.’
‘Klara?’
‘Klara Clark. NCA analyst and general tech wizard.’
‘No such thing as a female wizard. Klara would be a witch. A tech witch.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. Guru would be better. A tech guru.’
Archer rolls her eyes and Quinn smiles.
‘As analysts go, Os is good, but we could certainly do with a more seasoned pro,’ he says.
‘He seems inexperienced.’
‘Aye, he’s been with us for a year. He’s still a wee bit green.’
‘Klara will be good for us. She can do the work of three analysts.’
Their conversation is interrupted by Pierce’s voice. ‘DI Archer. A word, please. Harry, give us a moment.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Pierce closes the door behind Quinn, folds her arms and levels her gaze at Archer.
The air crackles between them.
After a moment she speaks. ‘Charlie Bates has spoken with the Chief Constable.’
‘Has he?’ Archer tries to sound surprised.
‘Don’t play the innocent with me.’
Archer bristles, but is in no mood to stand down. Not after today’s unusual body count. ‘With all due respect, ma’am, this investigation is beyond DI Hicks’s capabilities.’ Her tone is firm, perhaps too firm, and she stops herself saying any more.
Pierce’s eyes blaze, her jaw tightens. ‘You have been a DI for five minutes and yet you stand in judgement against those with several years’ more experience than you!’
‘I don’t mean any disrespect.’
‘I hope you can prove yourself, DI Archer.’
Archer holds her tongue. She knows she has already overstepped the mark.
‘You will report to me daily for the duration of this investigation. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I want to hear of every lead, every movement, every bit of progress. Or lack of. Is that understood?’
‘Of course, ma’am.’
‘I will be watching you, DI Archer.’
Pierce leaves and Archer lets out a breath that she hasn’t realised she’s been holding. Outside the incident room, the DCI stops to talk with Quinn. They both turn to look at Archer. Archer wonders if she can really trust the Irishman. They finish their conversation and Quinn approaches the incident room.
‘That looked tense,’ he says.
Archer shrugs. ‘We haven’t quite bonded yet.’
‘That much is evident. She’s asked me to show you to your office.’
The room in question is a ten-by-ten space next to Hicks’s office. Quinn opens the door and Archer’s nose wrinkles at the unaired musty odour inside. A blokey smell, like sweat, old meat and stale coffee, the footprint of hours fuelled by machine coffee and burritos from the local Chipotle.
‘Ugh . . . That’s rank!’ says Quinn.
A leather-topped desk inside littered with crumpled papers and tissues dominates the room. Underneath it she can see the source of the stench, a full wastepaper basket that the previous occupant didn’t bother to empty.
Sergeant Beattie appears. ‘Ma’am, PC Simpson is here.’
Archer looks beyond the sergeant and sees the large frame of the constable looking pale and terrified.
‘Thank you, Sergeant Beattie.’ She turns to Quinn. ‘Let’s talk to him in the incident room.’
Quinn escorts the constable inside.
‘PC Simpson, I am DI Grace Archer and I assume you know DS Quinn.’
Simpson flushes and nods.
‘Please sit down.’
The constable sits opposite Archer and starts talking before they can begin. ‘I should have checked, I know. I screwed up. I can’t believe it. It had been a long day and night. I had done a double shift and I was tired and just wanted to knock off. I’m really sorry. Shit! I can’t believe this happened to me. I’ve never screwed up like this . . .’
‘PC Simpson, take a breath,’ says Archer.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Tell us what happened yesterday.’
‘I was driving around Trafalgar Square at the end of my shift and saw the van parked up on Charing Cross Road. I pulled over to see what they were up to. I thought it was harmless enough. They told me it was an exhibition for the Lord Mayor’s Show. I asked the bloke for the paperwork and he showed me a council approval letter.’
‘Josef Olinski.’
‘Yes, that’s him.’
‘Was there a name on the letter, a signature?’ asks Quinn.
‘Yes, but I don’t remember what it was. It all just seemed so harmless. I mean, there’s always artsy stuff appearing on the streets. Cow statues and stuff like that. These cabinet things were covered in some fancy material and I just assumed they were legit. I never imagined what was inside.’ Simpson’s eyes dart from Archer to Quinn. ‘Jesus Christ, I’m going to lose my job over this, aren’t I?’
‘I doubt that, PC Simpson. What did you talk about?’ asks Archer.
‘General stuff. He was married with a kid. He seemed friendly and willing to help. I asked him what was in the cabinets and he told me it was some sort of art exhibit. We laughed, thinking it was just a load of old rubbish.’
‘The CCTV footage shows you looking under the covers.’
‘I did, but I didn’t really see much. It was dark and the covers didn’t help. Honestly, I couldn’t have imagined anyone would have the nerve to put dead bodies inside containers and leave them on Charing Cross Road.’
‘OK, Kevin. Thank you,’ says Quinn.
‘There is something else . . .’ Simpson leaves the statement hanging as if waiting for permission to speak.
‘You’re keeping us on tenterhooks, Constable. Please break the suspense,’ says Quinn.
‘Josef Olinski said these three were the first of many. He told me they had already delivered six more cabinets to two other locations.’