here.”
Sean entered his cramped office at the back of the unit and threw the two files for Operation Poor Girl on his desk. Letters and memos were stacked neatly to one side by Heidi. Sean sat and opened the top file. The photo showed the mutilated corpse of a once beautiful woman. He visualised the blank face of a spectre in darkness and weariness was replaced by determination. He had a target; a person who shouldn’t be on this earth.
Sean gave full concentration to the tragic demise of both women, each attractive, intelligent and ambitious, each forced to a degrading and violent death. Sinclair’s obsession for justice became understandable, as did his frustration over the lack of police co-ordination. Sean observed an absence of notes leading to the days before Sinclair’s death. Notes missing, or never made. Periodically he heard the comings and goings of Red Team who occupied the same building, the starting crank of motorbikes, car tyres squeaking over concrete in the shared vehicle pool below, the occasional laugh, blasphemy, chirping ring of numerous mobiles. Twice he phoned the contact number for Victoria Lawless, both times finding her unavailable. The second time he left words on her voicemail. Whatever his own incoming messages, Heidi deemed them unimportant because she left him in peace. When he entered the Ops room at 1700 hours, the whole of Blue Team waited expectantly. He carried with him copied files of Sinclair’s suicide and the two murders comprising Operation Poor Girl. Inside he felt totally focused. Cobbart had given him a specimen that made the assassins from his other operation look saintly.
“In case you were feeling overworked, the troll has landed us with a possible suicide and two murders.”
“We don’t do murders,” the voice came from Detective Constable Sims. With choir boy looks and cheeky eyes he would have passed in school uniform as much as in his seriously casual clothes.
“For the record, we’re searching links to organised crime and the possible involvement of an imported hit-man.” Sean looked to the corner where Sims sprawled in his chair. “Off the record, it’s a favour for the Old Boys’ Club. They want to reactivate the files independently of CID, more pointedly, independent of the Creech mob in East London. After reading current information, my mind is open, but off the record, we have a gut-ripping serial killer.”
Sean glanced to the faces of the nine men and women comprising Blue Team. Some wore jeans, some were booted and suited.
“Can we assume Poor Girl and the Back Door enquiry are linked?” DS Diane Sutton spoke from the rear, arms folded over a full bust, her body heading past its best.
“Yes. John Cobbart is crusading for his old friend Sinclair. Cobbart was Godfather to his daughter. In that respect he’ll give all the help he can but funds are tight so any time given needs positive results. We give Poor Girl priority for three full days, then after we’ve gathered initial facts, you’ll only come in when needed. I’ll do the rest. We begin with Sammy Sinclair’s suicide. It’s nothing to do with organised crime, least not on the surface. So no-one say it, just do it.”
“I thought he was a piss-head,” Ali Hussein said.
“One of the murder victims was his daughter. She also died in Stoke Newington. In fact, father and daughter died within a hundred metres.”
“That’s Charlie Creech’s manor again. He ain’t gonna like us.” Jan Rice stretched her long legs. Lean and small busted, with a boyish ambiance, Sean figured maybe she and Danielle had something in common.
“Consider him the enemy. Sinclair publicly accused Creech of incompetence. Probably for that reason, on Sinclair’s demise, Creech sent only one junior DC to investigate the scene. Maybe the lad picked up everything, maybe not. Ali, Bob, I want you to find out.” Sean moved across the room and handed a file to Bob Howells. “Sinclair
Sean entered his cramped office at the back of the unit and threw the two files for Operation Poor Girl on his desk. Letters and memos were stacked neatly to one side by Heidi. Sean sat and opened the top file. The photo showed the mutilated corpse of a once beautiful woman. He visualised the blank face of a spectre in darkness and weariness was replaced by determination. He had a target; a person who shouldn’t be on this earth.
Sean gave full concentration to the tragic demise of both women, each attractive, intelligent and ambitious, each forced to a degrading and violent death. Sinclair’s obsession for justice became understandable, as did his frustration over the lack of police co-ordination. Sean observed an absence of notes leading to the days before Sinclair’s death. Notes missing, or never made. Periodically he heard the comings and goings of Red Team who occupied the same building, the starting crank of motorbikes, car tyres squeaking over concrete in the shared vehicle pool below, the occasional laugh, blasphemy, chirping ring of numerous mobiles. Twice he phoned the contact number for Victoria Lawless, both times finding her unavailable. The second time he left words on her voicemail. Whatever his own incoming messages, Heidi deemed them unimportant because she left him in peace. When he entered the Ops room at 1700 hours, the whole of Blue Team waited expectantly. He carried with him copied files of Sinclair’s suicide and the two murders comprising Operation Poor Girl. Inside he felt totally focused. Cobbart had given him a specimen that made the assassins from his other operation look saintly.
“In case you were feeling overworked, the troll has landed us with a possible suicide and two murders.”
“We don’t do murders,” the voice came from Detective Constable Sims. With choir boy looks and cheeky eyes he would have passed in school uniform as much as in his seriously casual clothes.
“For the record, we’re searching links to organised crime and the possible involvement of an imported hit-man.” Sean looked to the corner where Sims sprawled in his chair. “Off the record, it’s a favour for the Old Boys’ Club. They want to reactivate the files independently of CID, more pointedly, independent of the Creech mob in East London. After reading current information, my mind is open, but off the record, we have a gut-ripping serial killer.”
Sean glanced to the faces of the nine men and women comprising Blue Team. Some wore jeans, some were booted and suited.
“Can we assume Poor Girl and the Back Door enquiry are linked?” DS Diane Sutton spoke from the rear, arms folded over a full bust, her body heading past its best.
“Yes. John Cobbart is crusading for his old friend Sinclair. Cobbart was Godfather to his daughter. In that respect he’ll give all the help he can but funds are tight so any time given needs positive results. We give Poor Girl priority for three full days, then after we’ve gathered initial facts, you’ll only come in when needed. I’ll do the rest. We begin with Sammy Sinclair’s suicide. It’s nothing to do with organised crime, least not on the surface. So no-one say it, just do it.”
“I thought he was a piss-head,” Ali Hussein said.
“One of the murder victims was his daughter. She also died in Stoke Newington. In fact, father and daughter died within a hundred metres.”
“That’s Charlie Creech’s manor again. He ain’t gonna like us.” Jan Rice stretched her long legs. Lean and small busted, with a boyish ambiance, Sean figured maybe she and Danielle had something in common.
“Consider him the enemy. Sinclair publicly accused Creech of incompetence. Probably for that reason, on Sinclair’s demise, Creech sent only one junior DC to investigate the scene. Maybe the lad picked up everything, maybe not. Ali, Bob, I want you to find out.” Sean moved across the room and handed a file to Bob Howells. “Sinclair
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