scene photographs, studying every square centimetre of each one then swapping it for a corresponding report, searching both for something that might have been overlooked. Something he might have missed. But to his frustration he could find nothing he hadn’t already seen. He was about to go through the whole procedure again when Sally knocked on his door, entered without being asked, and slumped exhausted into the chair on the opposite side of the desk. He looked her up and down. ‘You look tired.’
‘I’m fine,’ she lied. ‘Nothing a dose of caffeine won’t fix.’
‘You find the family?’ he asked.
‘Was easy enough,’ she told him. ‘Dalton had a long and illustrious criminal record, going back to his early childhood. His mum and dad, Jane and Peter, still live in the family home in Lewisham. Neither had seen William in a few months, but they were pretty devastated when they got the news.’
‘They’ve lost a child,’ Sean reminded her. ‘Doesn’t matter to the parents what that child may have become. He’ll always be their boy.’
‘I know,’ Sally agreed. ‘Anyway, they tried repeatedly to help him turn it around, but ultimately he chose drugs over them. If we need them to formally identify the body, they will.’
‘We do,’ he confirmed.
‘Apparently, he has an older brother: Sam,’ she continued. ‘He tracked William down to the West End, found him on the streets begging. When he tried to get William to go with him, stay at his place for a while and get cleaned up, the lad wasn’t having it.’
‘Some people don’t want to get clean,’ Sean reminded her. ‘They prefer their own version of reality.’
‘Well, he sure did,’ Sally said. ‘None of the family knew he was living in a disused garage,’ she continued. ‘Or at least, they didn’t until now.’
‘OK,’ Sean sighed. ‘Find the brother and talk to him. He probably knows more about the victim’s life than the parents. Siblings usually do when a brother or a sister go off the rails.’
‘Won’t be a problem,’ she told him. ‘Parents gave me his address.’
‘And see if the parents will give us a decent headshot photograph,’ Sean continued. ‘Have some of the team hit Oxford Street and show it around. We’re going to need the homeless community to talk to us, but I don’t want to alienate them by using a mugshot of a victim taken while he was in custody. Let’s not create a them-and-us feel when dealing with them.’
‘Got one here,’ Sally told him and pulled a photograph of a smiling William Dalton from her jacket pocket, taken shortly before the ravages of crack took hold and he ran away from home. ‘Parents let me have it. Had a feeling we’d need one.’
‘Good work,’ he acknowledged. He checked his watch. ‘It’s late, Sally. Why don’t you go home? You can start fresh in the morning.’
‘Trying to protect me?’ she accused him. Ever since Gibran almost took her life, Sean had been treating her differently to anyone else on the team; he couldn’t seem to help himself.
‘No,’ he argued. ‘I know you can handle yourself. But you look tired.’
‘We’re all tired,’ she reminded him, ‘and we’re going to get a lot more tired before this is over. No,’ she said, dragging herself to her feet. ‘Now’s a good time to hit the West End. It’ll be reasonably quiet and the homeless will be settling into doorways. Easier to talk to them when they’re static and not trying to hassle tourists for coins. I’ll stir up some unwilling volunteers and see what we can turn up.’
‘OK,’ he reluctantly agreed. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘What about you?’ she replied. ‘Gonna try for home – see Kate and the kids while you have a chance?’
Again he glanced at his watch – more to make a point than to check the time. ‘Too late for that,’ he told her. ‘For the kids, anyway.’
‘So what are you going to do instead?’ she asked. ‘Not sit here all night driving yourself insane reading reports, I hope?’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Thought I’d check on Donnelly and the door-to-door team, and then maybe …’ Sally’s scrutinizing gaze stopped him finishing.
‘And then maybe what?’ she pressed.
‘I thought … as I’ll be in the area,’ he tried to convince her, ‘I’d take another look at the scene.’
‘At the scene?’ she questioned him. ‘At this time of night – alone? Despite the fact you were there earlier?’
‘That was the problem,’ he tried to ease her concerns. ‘Earlier, it wasn’t right. There were too many people around, too much traffic, too many lights on in the houses and flats. Too much … life. It wasn’t how it would have been when Dalton was killed. And the place was crawling with forensics. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t get a feel for what happened.’
Sally sighed deeply. ‘Be careful, Sean,’ she warned him. ‘It’s been a while since we had a case like this. Maybe you should ease yourself into it – go through the normal motions of an investigation rather than trying to look into that crystal ball of yours. Don’t put yourself under too much pressure to solve this one by yourself. Don’t get isolated, Sean.’
‘I don’t have a crystal ball,’ he told her, getting to his feet, ‘and I won’t get isolated. You’ll know what I know.’ He grabbed his coat from the stand and began the ritual of filling his pockets with the phones, Maglite and a few other items he thought might be useful. ‘I need some time alone at the scene at the right time of day or night. I need to see it like he saw it.’
‘Feel what he felt?’ Sally asked accusingly.
‘I want to analyse the scene as the suspect would have seen it, that’s all,’ he lied.
‘Fine,’ she gave in.
‘Don’t worry about me so much,’ he told her as he brushed past on his way out. ‘Worry about finding whoever we’re after before he kills again. I’ll text you later,’ he promised, then headed off across the main office and through the exit.
Dave Donnelly sat alone in the Lord Clyde pub in Clenham Street just around the corner from the Mint Street crime scene, sipping a pint – not his first – and nibbling on a sandwich. He’d long ago abandoned the idea of eating the chunky chips that had accompanied it. The pleasant effects of the alcohol came all the quicker on an empty stomach, but they couldn’t stop the images of Jeremy Goldsboro, better known to the public as the Jackdaw, racing through his mind: Goldsboro pointing the shotgun at Sean until a bullet from Donnelly’s gun smashed him backwards. That should have been enough, but the Jackdaw had raised his shotgun again, leaving Donnelly no choice but to pump two more shots into his chest to end the stand-off. The memories brought bile flooding into his mouth. He swallowed it down with another mouthful of beer just as DCI Ryan Ramsay entered the sparsely populated pub. Spotting Donnelly, he made his way across the room and took the vacant seat across the table.
‘Drink?’ Donnelly offered.
‘No,’ Ramsay told him. ‘I won’t be staying long.’
‘Fair enough,’ Donnelly shrugged and raised his glass. ‘Mind if I do?’
‘Go ahead,’ Ramsay replied, uninterested.
‘So what d’you want to talk about?’ Donnelly cut to the chase. ‘Why did you ask to meet me?’
‘Thought we should have a chat,’ Ramsay said, as if it was nothing. ‘It’s been quite a while since we last talked.’
‘You mean when you asked me to pass you insider information about SIU cases?’ Donnelly reminded him. ‘When you asked me to give you information about Sean Corrigan?’
‘Information