ARCHER CATCHES AN UBER FROM the hospital and makes her way back to Charing Cross still fuming at the moped rider who broke her phone and left her cut off from the investigation and any news of Quinn’s progress. First thing tomorrow morning she will get a replacement sim. The isolation is becoming intolerable.
She enters a dimly lit third floor, which seems both tranquil and desolate. The only sign of life comes from Klara’s hub which is lit up like the Mothership. She sees the analyst’s head down behind her bank of monitors.
‘Hey,’ says Archer as she enters Klara’s domain.
‘Hi, Grace.’
Archer takes of her coat and drops it on a chair. ‘What’s the latest?’
‘Tighe and Furlong were not at home. Harry and the team are on their way to Bethnal Green to stake out one of their dealing haunts. How’s your grandad?’
‘He’s doing OK, I think.’
‘Are you worried about him?’
Archer feels a chill and rubs her arms. ‘I’m trying not to be.’
‘He’s in the best place. It’s a good hospital.’
‘I know.’
Archer looks across at Klara’s monitors and notices one with an open police report containing a photograph of a similar moped used by the phone thief.
‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘Yes . . . but . . . the owner is a young woman, who reported it missing three weeks back.’
‘Oh well. It was worth a shot.’
‘I’m sorry, Grace.’
‘Don’t be. Besides, it’s not like we don’t have enough on our plates.’
‘True. So do you think Faulkner is the killer?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Hicks seems to think so.’
‘Does he now?’
‘According to Hicks, Faulkner’s troubled childhood, his history of drugs and violence and his dislike of minority groups mark him out as our number one suspect. This case will be sewn up as soon as we find and arrest him, apparently.’
‘Hicks listens to too many true crime podcasts.’
Klara chuckles. ‘I think we both know he uses them as a detective learning resource.’
The phone rings. Klara answers. She mouths ‘Quinn’ to Archer and places the call on speaker.
‘Hi, Harry. I’m here with DI Archer.’
‘We’ve picked up Tighe and Furlong. We’re on our way back.’
It’s almost midnight by the time Kevin Furlong and John Tighe have been processed and put into separate interview rooms awaiting an inquisition from Archer and Quinn. The search has revealed four bags of cannabis, a bag of MDMA and the key to Faulkner’s car.
Kevin Furlong is the first to be questioned. Archer studies him from a monitor in the room opposite and feels a knot in her stomach as she takes in the dimensions of the interview room, which seems stupidly small, dark and enclosed. Maybe the position of the camera makes it seem that way. She hopes. She absentmindedly massages her neck and tries to focus on Furlong. He is dressed in a black and grey Champion tracksuit and slouches on the chair listening to his solicitor, a dour man called Smith, whisper some final words. Furlong looks older than his twenty-five years. Unlike his chum, John Tighe, Furlong knows the police system. He is a seasoned pro when it comes to arrests and interviews.
‘Ready?’ asks Quinn, holding a manila folder.
Archer hesitates and blinks. ‘Yes.’
She lets Quinn enter first and stops as the door closes behind her. The room is cold and stale; the earthy reek of bitter weed lingering on Furlong’s clothes chokes the air from the small space. Archer feels her head swim. A memory surfaces: her small hands scrambling for the light as a trapdoor closes firmly, locking her in the earth, shutting her away from her dead father, her grandfather, her grandmother, her life, their lives, everything she knew. She tries to take a deep breath but hears the echo of her twelve-year-old self screaming in the darkness. Her throat clenches as the walls and ceiling seem to close in on her. She can feel Quinn, Furlong and Smith watching her with judgemental eyes as she unravels before them. A cold sweat forms on her skin and she backs out of the room and into the corridor.
‘Fuck! Fuck!’ she whispers.
The corridor is bright, wide and long and helps her relax.
Quinn emerges and closes the door behind him. ‘Ma’am, are you all right?’
Archer composes herself and smiles. ‘Yes . . . yes of course. Could you just give me a minute?’
Quinn’s eyes try to read her face. He is unconvinced. ‘Of course. I’ll go ahead and start. Come in when you’re ready.’
As the door closes Archer leans against the wall and hears Quinn starting the interview. She crouches on the floor.
Pull yourself together, for Chrissake. Focus! Forget about the past. That room isn’t tiny.
She takes two deep breaths through her nose, turns the handle, steps into the room and sits at the table beside Quinn. Furlong stares at her with a shark-like grin. He believes he has the upper hand. Archer recognises that expression and bristles.
‘For the benefit of the recording, Detective Inspector Archer has just entered the room,’ says Quinn. ‘OK, recommencement of the interview with Kevin Furlong. I am showing Kevin an ANPR photo clearly showing him in the driving seat of a black Range Rover. Kevin, did you steal the Range Rover you are driving in this picture?’
‘No comment,’ replies Furlong, his eyes never leaving Archer’s.
‘I’ll ask you again. Did you steal the Range Rover in the picture?’
‘No comment.’
‘Kevin, why are you driving a Range Rover that doesn’t belong to you?’
‘No comment.’
The room starts to close in again, but Archer concentrates on Furlong. The young man’s eyes widen and he leans forward and snorts, ‘Here, Detective Sarge Quinn, or whatever your name is, did you know she’s got one eye a different colour to the other?’
‘Hey!’ shouts Quinn, slapping his hand on the table top suddenly.
Furlong jumps and glares at Quinn.
‘That’s it. Eyes on me, sunshine, when I’m talking to you.’ Quinn’s voice is deep and forceful.
To her relief, Quinn’s outburst shakes Archer from her fugue. She opens the manila folder and takes out a photo of Faulkner. ‘Kevin, do you recognise this man?’
Furlong doesn’t look at the image. ‘No comment.’
‘Kevin, please look at the picture.’
Furlong looks to Smith. The solicitor nods and Furlong rolls his eyes and then glances at the photo. Archer notices him shift in his chair.
‘No comment.’
Archer takes out the pictures of Billy Perrin, Noel Tipping and Stan Buxton and lays them across the table top like a player’s hand in three card poker.
‘Kevin, do you recognise any of these men?’
He scans the photos. ‘No comment.’
‘They were all murdered, Kevin. Did you play any part in their murder?’
Furlong’s face drops and he looks to Smith.
‘I thought this was about the theft of a car?’ asks Smith.
‘Kevin, did you play a part in their murder?’
‘No!’
‘The Range Rover belongs to this man. Do you recognise him?’
‘No comment.’
Archer looks to Quinn. ‘I think we’re done here.’
‘Can I go now?’ asks Furlong.
‘Nope,’ replies Quinn.
Archer leaves the interview room and waits outsides as Quinn goes through the formalities of ending the interview.
The duty sergeant approaches Archer. ‘Ma’am, John Tighe’s brief has still not arrived.’
‘Did he say when he would be here?’
‘Possibly in the morning.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
Quinn appears. ‘I’ll make an application for an extended stay and we can crack him before we have to release him.’
‘Tighe’s brief won’t be here until the morning.’
‘That’s a ball ache.’
‘We don’t have time to wait until the morning.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
Archer is relieved to find John Tighe’s interview room is slightly larger and less oppressive. Tighe sits at the table with a female uniformed officer standing behind him.
‘Thanks, Jane,’ says Quinn, holding the door for the officer.
Archer sits at the table. Tighe must be five years younger than Furlong and is dressed in a similar black and grey tracksuit and wears his hair combed forward in the same style.
‘Hello, John, how are you?’ asks Archer.
Tighe shrugs, his eyes dart warily from Archer to Quinn and back again.
‘Have we met before?’ asks Quinn.
‘How could we? I’ve never been ’ere, ’ave I?’
‘Oh, I was sure I’d seen you here a few times before.’
‘Not me.’
‘Are you related to Kevin?’ asks Archer.
Tighe frowns. ‘No.’
‘You wear the same clothes and have the same hairstyle. I just thought . . .’
Tighe folds his arms and tuts. ‘We’re not related!’
Archer smiles inside. Tighe’s sass is more sweet than sour.
‘Just mates then.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I suppose if you were related then Kevin wouldn’t have dropped you in it like he just did,’ lies Quinn.
Tighe frowns as he stares back at Quinn.
Archer and Quinn say nothing as they let that seed take root and grow.
‘John, why did you steal the Range Rover?’ asks Archer.
His face pales. ‘I didn’t.’
‘That’s not what Kevin told us,’ says Archer.
‘We have lots of nice photos of you and Kevin driving the Range Rover,’ says Quinn.
Tighe chews his lip.
Quinn looks at Archer. ‘Two years prison sentence. Five-thousand-quid fine. Driving ban.’
‘At least,’ replies Archer.
Quinn turns back to Tighe. ‘And Kevin can look after himself while you are inside.’
Tighe’s eyes widen and begin to well. ‘We didn’t steal it, I swear! It’d been sitting there for days untouched. We just fancied a peek inside. The door was unlocked and the keys were in the ignition. Why not take it for a ride? You would, wouldn’t ya, nice motor like that.’
‘You didn’t think to report it to the police?’
Tighe sniffs and folds his arms. ‘Was going to. Eventually.’
‘Have you seen the car before?’
He hesitates before answering. ‘Sometimes.’
‘So you know who the owner is?’
‘No.’
Quinn slides across an ANPR photo with Lewis Faulkner inside the car.
‘Do you recognise this man?’
‘No.’
‘Kevin said you do know him. You sold him crack,’ bluffs Quinn.
Tighe’s face drops. ‘He’s lying. I didn’t sell nuffin’ to him.’
‘But you have done?’
‘No I ’aven’t.’
‘You and Kevin are known to us, although from what we can gather, he seems an unwilling participant in this crime.’
Archer notices Tighe’s Adam’s apple drop like a brick as he unwittingly swallows the bait.
‘I told you we didn’t steal it. We just borrowed it.’
‘Of course you did.’
‘The man who owns the car has gone missing,’ says Archer.
‘Where did you find it?’
‘In Bow.’
‘Whereabouts in Bow?’
‘It was parked by a church.’
‘Bow Church?’
‘No, the other one. St Catherine’s.’
‘Didn’t know you were a churchgoer,’ says Quinn.
‘I’m not.’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘We was at the old toilets opposite.’
Tighe rubs his thighs and seems unsure if he should continue.
‘We’re only interested in the car and its owner, John,’ says Archer. ‘Were you and Kevin dealing in the toilets?’
‘Only blow, I swear to you.’
‘Where’s the car now?’
‘Back in the church car park. We ain’t that stupid.’
Archer points at the picture of Faulkner again. ‘Have you or Kevin sold blow, or any other drugs, to this man before?’
Tighe casts his eyes downward and nods his head.
She shows him the pictures of Billy Perrin, Noel Tipping and Stan Buxton. ‘Do you recognise these men?’
He shakes his head.
‘OK. Thank you, John. Make yourself comfortable. We can catch up later.’
‘Can’t I go home?’
‘Not quite yet.’
*
It’s past 1 a.m. when Archer and Quinn find the Range Rover parked out of the way at the rear of Our Lady and St Catherine of Siena Catholic Church on Bow Road. They pull on disposable gloves and begin to search through the interior of the vehicle. Apart from smelling of Furlong and Tighe’s weed, there is nothing inside that seems worthy of following up.
‘I’ll get Forensics to look over it,’ says Quinn.
Archer walks towards the entrance and looks across at the disused Victorian toilets presided over by a grubby statue of William Gladstone gesturing with a welcoming hand.
They cross the road and push open the tall, rusty steel gate entrance and flick on their torches. The beams light up the tiled steps that are caked with grime and carpeted with broken bottles, leaves, plastic packaging and cigarette boxes.
The steps are steep, slippery and made more treacherous by the detritus underfoot. Archer holds onto a greasy handrail and is grateful that she is still wearing the latex gloves.
As she descends her nose wrinkles at the pungent amalgam of weed, stale urine and shit.
‘Christ!’ says Quinn. ‘These toilets are beyond rundown but that doesn’t seem to stop some people doing their dirty business here.’
The interior is a ruin of broken cubicles, smashed tiles and shattered porcelain. Archer points her beam at a wall where the tiles have been completely removed.
She feels her pulse quicken.
Painted on the wall is a sprayed graffiti-art depiction of a chubby naked man with a benign smile and blond hair. On his head is a tilted gold crown of thorns.
‘Jesus! Is that Lewis Faulkner?’
They move closer. The likeness is unmistakable and the style matches the previous paintings.
‘That’s him,’ confirms Archer.
‘Shit! Does that mean he’s not our man after all?’
‘I don’t think we can rule that out yet. He’s wearing a crown of thorns and he’s smiling. Perhaps that is significant.’
‘Do you think he painted himself?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘He’s only painted the victims so far.’
‘Maybe this is a distraction.’
Quinn points his beam at the crotch area. ‘You’d think if you were going to paint yourself you’d be a bit more generous with the old man?’
‘Maybe that’s not important to him. Could you take some photos?’
‘Let’s do a selfie,’ says Quinn.
‘Let’s not.’