LITMIR.BIZ

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team is looking at the victim’s personal stuff, so we’ll have a long list of people to trace and chat with soon enough. I don’t expect it to be long before we have a decent idea who our prime suspect is.

      ‘Dave. You go office manager on this one.’ Donnelly nodded acknowledgement. ‘The rest of you check with Dave at least three times a day for your assignments. And remember,’ Sean added, ‘the first few hours are the most important, so let’s eat on the hoof and worry about sleep when the killer’s banged up downstairs.’

      There were nods of approval as the group began to break up. Sean could sense their optimism, their trust in his leadership, his judgement. He hadn’t failed them yet.

      He prayed this case would be no different.

      It was almost 1 p.m. and Sean had spent the morning on the phone. He’d told the same story a dozen times. To his superintendent, the Intelligence Unit, the Gay and Lesbian liaison officer, the local uniformed duty officer, the Community Safety Inspector. He was sick of telling. Sally and Donnelly had returned for their meeting and sat in his office. Sally had brought coffee and sandwiches, which Sean ate without tasting. It was the first thing he had eaten since the phone call from Donnelly early that morning, so he was happy just to get something into his stomach.

      Between bites they talked, all of them aware they hadn’t a moment to waste on a proper lunch. The first days of a murder inquiry were always the same – so much to get through and so little time. Forensic evidence degraded, witnesses’ memories faded, CCTV tapes would be recorded over. Time was Sean’s enemy now.

      ‘Anything from the door-to-door, Sally?’ he asked. ‘Give me good news only.’

      ‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘I’ve still got guys down there knocking on doors, but so far all we’re being told is that Graydon kept himself to himself. No noisy parties. No fights. No problems. No nothing. Everybody says he was a nice kid. As for last night, nobody saw or heard a thing. Another quiet night in South London.’

      ‘That can’t be right,’ Sean argued. ‘A man gets beaten to death within a few feet of what, four other flats, and no one heard it?’

      ‘That’s what we’re being told.’

      Sean sighed and turned towards Donnelly. ‘Dave?’

      ‘Aye. We’ve managed to make copies of his diary, address book and what have you. I’ve got a couple of the lads going through that now. Expect to be informed about next of kin pretty soon. No boyfriend yet, though. No one name coming up over and over. I’ll be sending the troops out to trace friends and associates as and when we have their details. Oh, and the Coroner’s Officer has been on the blower. The body’s been moved from the scene and taken to Guy’s Hospital. Post-mortem’s at four p.m. today.’

      Sean’s mind flashed with the images of previous post-mortems he’d attended as he pushed what was left of his sandwiches to one side.

      ‘Who’s doing it?’

      ‘You’ve got your wish there, boss. It’s Dr Canning. Anything more from the forensics team at the scene?’

      ‘Not yet. Roddis doesn’t reckon they’ll be finished until about this time tomorrow, then as usual everything gets sent to the lab and we wait.’

      A young detective from Sean’s team appeared at the door holding a small piece of paper pinched between his fingers. ‘I think I’ve found an address for the parents.’ The three detectives continued to look at him.

      ‘I’ll take that, thanks,’ Sally told him. The young detective handed her the note and backed away from the door.

      Sean knew his responsibilities. ‘I’ll come too. Shit, this is gonna be fun. Dave, I’ll see you back here at about three thirty. You can take me to the post-mortem.’

      ‘I’ll be here,’ Donnelly assured him.

      Sean tugged his jacket on and headed for the door, Sally in pursuit. ‘And remember,’ he told Donnelly, ‘if anyone asks, this is a straightforward domestic murder. No need to get anyone excited.’

      ‘Having doubts?’ Donnelly managed to ask before Sean was gone.

      ‘No,’ Sean answered, not entirely truthfully. For a second he was back in the flat, back at the scene of the slaughter, watching the killer moving around Graydon’s prostrate form, but he saw no panic or fury in his actions, no jealousy or rage, only a coldness – a sense of satisfaction.

      Donnelly’s voice snapped him back. ‘You all right, guv’nor?’

      ‘Sorry, yes I’m fine. Just find me the boyfriend – whoever he is. Find him and you’ve found our prime suspect.’

      ‘I’ll do my best.’

      ‘I know you will,’ Sean told him as he watched him stride back into the main office.

      3

       Late Thursday afternoon

      Sean and Donnelly walked along the corridors of Guy’s Hospital, heading for the mortuary. They were accompanied by Detective Constable Sam Muir who would be acting as exhibits officer – taking responsibility for any objects the pathologist found on or in the body during the post-mortem. Sean wondered if he would bump into his wife, Kate, one of the all too few doctors attending to the never-ending flow of patients through the Accident and Emergency department – the sick and injured from the surrounding areas of Southwark, Bermondsey and beyond. Some of London’s poorest and most forgotten, living in council flats where violence and crime were seldom far away, yet all of their degradation and suffering going unnoticed and unseen by the swarms of tourists wandering around Tower Bridge and Tooley Street. If only they knew how close they were to some of London’s most dangerous territory.

      His mind returned to the victim’s parents. He and Sally had called at the small terraced house in Putney. A desirable neighbourhood on the whole, but boisterous on weekend evenings. Sally had done most of the talking.

      Daniel had been their only child. The mother was devastated and didn’t care who saw her fall to the floor screaming. Her despair was a physical pain. When she could speak, all she could say was the name of her son.

      The father was stunned. He didn’t know whether to help his wife or collapse himself. He ended up doing neither. Sean took him into the living room. Sally stayed with the mother.

      They knew their son was gay. It had bothered the father at first, but he grew to accept it. What else could he do other than push the boy away? And he would never do that. He said his son worked as a nightclub manager. He wasn’t sure where, but Daniel had been doing well for himself and had no money problems, unlike other young people.

      He hadn’t met any of his son’s friends. Daniel hadn’t kept in touch with his old school friends. He came home quite often, almost every Sunday for lunch. If he had a boyfriend then neither he nor his wife knew about it. Their son had said he wasn’t interested in anything like that. They hadn’t pressed him.

      The father had asked what they were to do now. His wife would be finished. She lived for the boy, not him. He knew it and didn’t mind − but with the boy gone?

      He wanted to know who would do this to his boy – who would do this to them? Why? Sean had no answers.

      As the three detectives entered the mortuary they could see Dr Simon Canning preparing for the post-mortem. A body lay covered with a green sheet on what Sean knew would be a cold, metal operating table. Water continually ran under the body to an exit drain as the pathologist did his work, so that the whole thing resembled a large, shallow, stainless-steel bathtub.

      Some detectives could detach themselves from the ugly reality of post-mortems, bury themselves in the science and art of the procedure. Unfortunately, Sean was not one of those detectives. For days to come images of his own post-mortem would blend with the memories of his shattered childhood. Meanwhile Dr Simon Canning was busy arranging his

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