8
She drove fast and made good time. When she hit the London traffic after Stevenage she broke out the blue light; the fast lane made way for her, and when she pulled up outside the gates of Battersea Park it was just gone six o’clock.
A ghostly white SOCO tent billowed and boomed in the wind. It wasn’t as cold here as it had been in Whitby, but that wasn’t saying much. She buttoned her coat as she made her way into the gloom of the park. Two teenagers with scooters were loitering under the trees, speculating gobbily on what had happened (‘I saw it, bruv – there was bare blood, I swear down.’). As she approached the tent, a PC in uniform approached to cut her off: Move along, miss, you’re trespassing on a crime-scene … Changed his tune sharpish when he got close enough to recognize her. Touched his cap; pointed her over to the far corner of the park, where two uniformed officers were speaking to a dark-haired man in a pale-grey suit.
For an irrational half-second she thought it was Sam Harrington, and her stomach lurched – but no, this was no MoJ fixer. It was Detective Inspector Robin Chalmers.
‘Chalmers.’
The tall DI curtly dismissed the two uniforms; turned to her with a smile. Looked faintly pissed-off beneath it, though.
‘Cox. Wasn’t expecting you.’
‘What’s the story here?’
Chalmers looked over at the tent, ran both his hands through his thick hair, sighed.
‘Pretty nasty,’ he said. ‘Old guy. Stabbed in the arm, bled out before anyone could help.’
‘Where are we at?’
‘The body’s already been taken away. I’ve got uniform scouting for witnesses.’ He looked at her. ‘I’ve got it all under control, Cox. No need for you to hang around.’
She shrugged. She had no time for this kind of jockeying for position.
‘Tell it to the DCI. He called me back from Yorkshire for this. No dinner and a five-hour drive says it’s my case, Rob.’
Chalmers made a rueful face, held up his hands in surrender.
‘All yours. Wasn’t enjoying it much anyway.’
‘So give me the detail.’
He flipped open his notebook.
‘Reginald Allis, seventy-one. Found dead on the footpath just after noon. Preliminary examination indicates that he was stabbed in the arm, and the knife severed the brachial artery.’
‘Unlucky.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. He managed to crawl a few metres before he bled to death. Dog-walker found him, called it in. It’s always bloody dog-walkers, isn’t it? Poor fuckers.’
‘Witnesses?’
‘No one’s come forward yet.’
Chalmers gave her a roll-eyed look.
‘This is London. What do you think? I’ve sent to SecuriLab for the footage.’
Cox nodded. Mugging gone wrong, she supposed. Should’ve let Chalmers keep it. She was about to go inspect the murder scene – expecting not much more than a sad stretch of bloodstained footpath – when one of the scene-of-crime team came past, rustling in his disposable suit. Cox gave him a nod; noticed that he was carrying a wallet in a clear plastic bag.
She stopped him with an outstretched hand.
‘Is that the victim’s?’
The SOCO was a young guy, a Chinese-Londoner she’d encountered before.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘A wallet? It wasn’t taken?’
‘Maybe the mugger got spooked by the blood, made a run for it?’ put in Chalmers.
She took the bagged wallet from the SOCO, turned it over in her hands. Looked at the guy.
‘It’s – Chang, isn’t it? Mind if I take a look?’
‘Be my guest,’ Chang shrugged.
Cox pulled a pair of latex gloves from her coat pocket, broke open the sterile packaging, pulled them on with a practised snap. Opened the evidence bag.
It was a plain leather wallet, high street quality, nothing flash. Inside she found sixty quid in twenties, a cash card, credit card, driver’s licence (she mentally noted the address in Pimlico), a loyalty card for a coffee-shop, a British Library pass, a diabetes card, with emergency contact listed (that would make things easier), a few receipts held together by a paperclip.
‘Not much,’ she muttered, half to herself. ‘But more than enough to keep a smackhead happy.’
She thumbed absently through the thin wad of receipts: a petrol station in Acton, a tailor’s in the West End, a computer-repair place …
No way …
The last receipt was for the Olympus Grill.
She smoothed it out with her thumb. Greek salad, kleftiko, moussaka. One litre of white wine. Dinner for two, surely. Dated 25 December.
She felt a jolt inside; was aware of a tremor in the hand that held the receipt. She slipped it back in the wallet, Chalmers gave no sign of having noticed her surprise: he was looking into the middle distance, smoothing a lapel. She took out the diabetes card and snapped shut the wallet. ‘There’s your next of kin,’ she said.
She handed the wallet back to Chang, thanked him, turned back to DI Chalmers.
‘So?’ he said.
‘So I want you to finish up here. Full statements from those kids with the bikes, okay?’
‘Yeah, I know the drill. But what the hell, Cox? I thought you wanted this one. What was all that crap about driving all the way from Yorkshire?’
‘Something’s come up. Can’t wait.’ She smiled, gave him a nudge as she walked away. ‘You’re back on the case, Chalmers.’