reading

Prologue

Joel lay still.

Blindfolded.

Gagged.

Bound.

He fought the panic swirling in his gut, tried to concentrate on the soft rustles and clicks happening a few feet away, only just audible above his own ragged breaths, and the hammering sound of his pulse in his ears.

To his right the low hum started again, punctuated by the same slow whispers of clothing; the same plastic tap-tap-tap.

Then the same cracking jolt.

His heart leapt even harder this time, because the whipping scratch that followed was not only nearer than it had been before, but also a lot more intense.

Moving was dangerous; they’d all been warned about it, but his head snapped instinctively towards the noise.

Now he was properly scared.

‘Hello?’ he mumbled through the gag, breathing even harder through his nose. After a few seconds, there was a quiet shuffle.

But no reply.

He tried adjusting the material with his tongue, but once more his voice came out a muffled slur. ‘Please. What’s going on?’

Nothing.

‘Will, Colin?’ He panted, straining against his bonds. ‘Can you hear me?’

Someone shushed him, though he couldn’t tell who, as red patches started flashing across the blackness in front of his eyes. The moisture that had formed around the edges of the fabric stretched across his skin began to sting. A bead of sweat ran down his cheek into his ear.

Frantic now, Joel began flexing his brow, trying to dislodge the blindfold. But it was made of the same clingy black material as the gag, and moulded itself to his face.

He gasped through the wet gag. ‘Please stop.’

He tried to sit up, but the ropes were tight, and he slumped, his heart smashing against his ribs. Then footsteps.

Coming his way.

‘I’m sorry,’ he garbled. ‘I don’t want this.’

Whoever it was arrived beside him and crouched next to his head, their knee-joints cracking.

Perhaps the scratching sounds had been the others getting up; leaving the room. Maybe that’s why they hadn’t answered, and this would all be over soon.

‘Sorr—’ he started to repeat, as a hand was jammed over his mouth and nose, pressing his head hard against the rough carpet.

Joel bucked, unable to breathe. But another weight arrived on his forehead, pinning him down, a cracked, clammy palm grinding itself against his hot, stinging skin.

Suffocating him.

He started to thrash, trying to scream through the gag, but the pressure didn’t ease until he heard the hissing voice, right next to his ear.

‘Shut … the fuck up.’

Joel nodded as hard as he could, still fighting for breath, even though his head didn’t move. But the resistance must have been felt, because the hands lifted, letting Joel drag in a deep, shuddering breath through the cloth.

There was a click, followed by a small whizzing sound.

A pause.

Gentle pressure applied to his chest.

Before the blinding pain crashed in.

1

There were two sharp knocks followed by a muted American rumble. ‘Toni, you in there?’

‘Yes.’ Hawkins glanced up from her perch on the rim of the bath.

‘Come on, already. We’re late.’

‘I know.’ She checked the time on her mobile. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’

There was a pause. ‘You sick?’

‘No. Fine.’

‘Then hustle. Our appointment’s in a half-hour.’

‘Okaaay.’ She tried to stop her voice flaring.

More silence, then, ‘I’ll be out front.’

She listened to his footsteps descending the stairs, heard the front door open and close, and sighed.

Things weren’t going well.

She and DI Mike Maguire had been living together now for almost a year. The love was still there, she didn’t question that, but no patch in their time together had been as rocky as this. Their arguments – regular as ever, but normally just heated banter – had escalated in recent months.

Partly the problem was lack of excitement. They both endured the daily grind of police work because it meant they got to take down a dyed-in-the-wool psychopathic killer once in a while. And to be honest, in the past they’d had their fair share. But their last decent specimen was now inside for life, and there was only one word that encapsulated life in Hawkins’ Murder Investigation Team since his apprehension.

Dull.

There had been murders since, of course; a capital city like London would always produce a steady stream of those. But the seemingly endless flow of domestic homicides, hate killings and drunken, out-of-hand brawls had become like a treadmill with no off switch. Recently every case seemed familiar; the same old story, just with different faces and names.

Hawkins glanced up as an engine kicked over outside the window, indicating that Mike had started the Range Rover, and would shortly pull round in front of the house. She needed to move, but his plan for their morning was her vision of hell.

She sighed as her phone pinged, retrieving it from the window sill and waking the screen, expecting to find an impatient text message from Mike.

Get your ass out here.

Seeing instead:

3xb, circ sus, soc os, 42 Priory Walk, Park Gardens, SW2.

Translated: Three bodies, circumstances suspicious, Scenes of Crime on site, and the location. Exhilaration flared as she called up the address. Brixton. Forty-eight minutes away.

Hawkins checked herself in the bathroom cabinet mirror, pinching at a clump of hastily applied mascara. Her off-day wear, a jade turtleneck and tight jeans, would raise eyebrows among colleagues used to more formal attire, but there wasn’t time to change.

She pushed her hair out of her eyes then rattled downstairs, collecting coat and bag on the way to the car, and stopped beside Mike’s door, tapping on the thick glass.

He glanced up from his phone, apparent confusion turning quickly to insight as he lowered the window, fixing her with fractious, dark brown eyes. ‘Don’t tell me, something came up.’

She held out her phone for him to verify the message, and watched him read, thinking about the last time they had genuinely enjoyed each other’s company without the pressure of an argument threatening to overwhelm the proverbial flood defences.

It had been a Sunday the previous month, the occasion filed away in her memory as if her subconscious had somehow known it was a turning point. Her sister Siobhan had dropped Antonia’s niece and nephew off for the day, while she covered an emergency shift for a colleague. Hawkins had refereed the making of fairy cakes for the kids’ pending school Christmas party, before Mike entertained them by letting them help with his weekly head-shaving routine. Then they had played ball games in the garden, making the most of a surprisingly temperate November, and all fallen asleep watching Disney films, to be woken by the doorbell when Siobhan returned to retrieve her offspring. Hawkins had lifted her head off Mike’s shoulder and gone to let her sister in, not noticing until they returned to the front room that Kyle wasn’t there. He was subsequently traced to the bathroom, just as the battery on Mike’s electric razor ran out, leaving the semi-bald youngster looking a lot less like his favourite adopted uncle than he’d intended. Alone once more, Hawkins and Mike had spent a dispute-free evening at home, laughing together; actually talking.

It seemed like a lifetime ago.

The corner of Mike’s mouth twitched as he handed the phone back.

She took it. ‘We’ll go next weekend. I promise.’

‘Sure we will.’

‘You know I can’t ignore this.’

‘I get it.’ He half turned away. ‘You’re devastated.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Hey, my boss didn’t want me to take today off in the first place, so he’ll be happy to see me. And it saves us both a day’s vacation time, right?’ The window started coming up. ‘See you tonight.’

‘Don’t be like tha—’ Hawkins began as the Range Rover roared away from the kerb. She watched it round the bend and disappear.

She stood for a moment, wondering if a text now, later, or at all would have any impact on the inevitable argument about conflicting priorities.

Probably not.

But she felt a surge of energy as she turned and headed for her car, revelling in the unexpected prospect of a decent investigation.

Distraction at last.

2

Park Gardens could have passed for a war zone.

Hawkins stepped over the jagged edge of yet another lifted flagstone, distastefully scanning the burnt-out meter boxes and crumbling brickwork of Priory Walk.

According to the bright yellow signs posted at regular intervals on the mesh safety fencing, these thirties brick flats were scheduled for demolition early next year.

Until then, the largely condemned estate made a great dumping ground for dead bodies.

She checked her mobile, dismayed to find that even a heavy right foot had only shaved a few minutes off her projected travel time from Ealing. On the way she had called her two most regular detective sergeants, Amala Yasir and Aaron Sharpe. Aaron was on compulsory training for revised arrest protocols until lunchtime and couldn’t make it, but Amala had been in the team’s office at Becke House, and would have beaten Hawkins here.

Then she’d taken a deep breath and rung Maguire.

Voicemail.

She hadn’t left a message, because a missed call made a stronger statement that she was trying. But the whole argument would have to wait, at least until she got a handle on this new case.

She passed through an underpass that reeked of piss, emerging, head turned against an icy breeze, into what by comparison was the desirable end of Park Gardens.

Two storeys of the same bare brick housing overlooked a tatty grass area, kids’ bicycles strewn here and there, near an upended bin bag disgorging an intermittent stream of crisp packets to the wind. At least at this end of the estate half the windows had glass; the remainder simply boarded instead of breeze-blocked up. Not a soul had shown themselves yet, but she caught ripples in at least two sets of curtains, one from a flat displaying a string of idly flashing Christmas lights. Somewhere in the background, a kids’ TV show blared.

There were families here.

Movement from the far corner of the square caught her attention, as DS Amala Yasir came out from the shadows of another cut-through and waved her across.

Hawkins walked over, their greeting limited to stoic nods as the sergeant turned back the way she had come. ‘This way, ma’am.’

Hawkins followed, pleased to note the assurance of her younger colleague. Not so long ago there would have been hesitation, an implied transfer of control; perhaps a hangover from some early career complications with idiot colleagues who had made an issue of the sergeant’s South-East Asian origins and small stature. Yet Amala had come on in leaps and bounds in recent months. Organized, intuitive and committed as ever, the only thing holding the DS back had been a lack of self-confidence. But Hawkins’ regular efforts to prod the sergeant out of her comfort zone had finally started paying off. These days, Amala’s delicate physique simply ensured more of a shock for anyone stupid enough to challenge her.

The downside was that others had noticed the change, too, so it probably wouldn’t be long before Hawkins’ protégée was tempted from the nest.

They walked across a courtyard, before entering a second one, smaller than the first. More two-storey flats ran left to right across the cracked and pitted pavement, dirty walls and boarded windows lining the grimy corridor that led back towards the main road. Through the clumsy network of ageing concrete stairs and walkways at the far end, Hawkins noted the SOCO van.

But there was no mistaking their destination. Directly ahead, one of the ground-floor flats was already swamped in blue-and-white crime scene tape, as overalled SOCOs ducked in and out, ferrying various pieces of evidence past the tiny forest of rampant weeds that estate agents might have called a garden, to stow them in the truck for later analysis.

She also saw a group of eight kids hovering outside one of the adjacent properties. The oldest few looked twelve or thirteen and were slouching on their bike seats, flicking cigarettes.

Hawkins touched Amala’s arm as they walked. ‘Can we lose the audience?’

‘Sorry, ma’am, should have said. They found the bodies, called it in.’

‘Fair enough. Have we got names and addresses in case they get bored?’

‘Already done, but they all live on the estate.’

‘Good. We’ll talk to them afterwards. What about CCTV?’

Amala gave her a rueful look. ‘No, the estate isn’t wired. They’re doing the main road after Christmas.’

Hawkins swore under her breath. ‘Find out where the nearest cameras are, just in case. We may need them later on.’ She pointed at the warped piece of chipboard propped under a smashed window. ‘Do we know who broke in?’

‘The kids said the board’s been off for a couple of weeks.’ The sergeant dropped her voice as they passed the group. ‘They thought it was squatters – apparently there’s a lot of that around here. Parents told them to stay clear, but the smell was getting hard to ignore.’

‘Can’t argue there.’ Hawkins switched to breathing through her mouth as they reached the cordon. Even outside, the rancid stench of decaying flesh was overpowering, like fermenting meat sprayed with cheap, sickly perfume, and left out in the sun. Her stomach gave a cautionary lurch.

They showed warrant cards, suited up, and went in. Hawkins paused briefly to inspect the door frame which carried apparently recent scars from a sizeable crowbar. She raised an elbow, estimating that whoever created the damage was two to four inches taller than her: unhelpfully meaning they were the height of the average man. She turned her attention to the poky hallway. The cramped space had claustrophobically low ceilings, ill-matched colours, and the efficient underlying buzz of a professional investigation team at work. But no evidence of the offending tool.

She turned to find Amala watching her and nodded. The sergeant let one of the SOCOs pass them in the narrow corridor before heading for the rear of the property. Hawkins followed, inspecting the place as they went.

Like its neighbours, the flat clearly hadn’t received any attention for years. The mottled blue carpet crunched underfoot, while huge discoloured stains on the ceiling suggested that upstairs’ plumbing also needed work. They passed a kitchen crammed into a medium-sized cupboard, with a burnt-out toaster and tiles smeared in a brown substance Hawkins decided not to investigate. A poky bedroom came next, filthy blankets and a duvet shoved into the rear corner, everything being slowly conquered by damp, suggesting that no one had lived here in the recent past.

Amala moved straight ahead into an unfurnished lounge, where the odour’s intensity kicked again, going from playful assault to brick-in-the-face.

Hawkins swallowed the small shot of bile that rose in her throat.

In front of her, Amala slid sideways into the room, her romper suit rasping quietly against the textured wallpaper, allowing Hawkins to step fully inside.

Dull winter sunlight drifted aimlessly through the open patio doors and cheap curtains on to dreary, part-papered walls. Flies criss-crossed the ceiling, their expired predecessors littering the patchy carpet below. The stagnant air seemed to drag the walls even closer.

Four white-overalled figures crouched in the centre of the room, temporarily blocking Hawkins’ view of the main attraction. Camera flashes identified one as the forensic photographer, while swabs and sample bags in the hands of two others denoted crime scene technicians.

Seconds later the formation broke, dispersing as if theatrically choreographed to reveal the grim reason for everyone’s presence.

Three bloated male bodies lay on their backs in the middle of the floor. Each wore jeans and trainers. A neat line, arms by sides, naked from the waist up. Blue-black skin eaten away in places, burst or blistering in others. Dark patches of escaped fluids formed a dirty halo around each man. Three neat piles of clothing were lined up against one wall.

The unidentified overall stood, turning away from the bodies to reveal its occupier’s face.

‘Cavalry at last.’ Gerald Pritchard crossed the short distance to meet them at the door, addressing Hawkins. ‘I trust you’re well, Detective?’

‘Fine, thanks.’ She dodged further civilities. Rumours had been circulating Becke House that the Home Office pathologist had recently remarried, mere months after his ailing wife had passed away, to a Thai woman twenty-five years his junior, yet it remained to be seen if this would temper his infamously lecherous approach to female colleagues.

She nodded past his shoulder. ‘Looks interesting.’

‘Doesn’t it just.’ Pritchard glanced back at the corpses, his nasal voice exaggerated by the sprung nose clip he reserved for the most pungent crime scenes. ‘A rare treat, you might say.’

Hawkins exchanged nauseated looks with Amala, asking as Pritchard turned back, ‘So what do we know?’

The pathologist rubbed at his chin with the back of a gloved hand. ‘Three dead males, all early to mid-twenties, at a loose estimate. Advanced pupae development and decomposition, hence the patently high levels of putrescine and cadaverine, and the accompanying malodour, of course.’ His head cocked in consideration. ‘They’ve probably been here ten days or so, though I’ll be able to speculate more accurately once I get them back to the lab. We minimize physical interference in such cases, you understand, because the bodies will disintegrate if handled. The cutis tends to slide off like rice pudding skin—’

‘So less than two weeks in situ,’ Hawkins interrupted before he got any more graphic. ‘Were any of them living here?’

I’d say not.’ Pritchard blinked slowly. ‘Aside from the discarded clothing, there’s a complete lack of personal effects elsewhere in the flat, and no food in the kitchen that isn’t at least six months past its best. We’ll confirm once samples from the other rooms have been analysed, but I think our protagonists arrived here in good health, shortly before meeting their ends. Speaking of which …’ He wandered over and collected a few items from near the piles of clothing, returning to hold them out towards the detectives.

Three mobile phones, two wallets and a bank card.

Hawkins quickly checked the phones – all locked. She put each one in a separate evidence bag, while Amala took the card. ‘J. Kowalski. Sounds Eastern European.’

Pritchard nodded. ‘Aside from a small amount of cash, it’s all we have for that one.’

Hawkins chose the first wallet, a practical black fabric fold-over, either recently cleaned out, or the property of someone who thought there was a place for everything. Tucked in a side pocket she found a publishing house security pass for a freelance journalist named Colin Wilson.

Pritchard produced five identical, expensively finished business cards from the remaining tan leather wallet. All were emblazoned Director, Business Solutions, and the accompanying driver’s licence showed matching details for a William Tennent.

Hawkins memorized the names as she eyed the slowly putrefying cadavers. ‘At least whoever’s responsible for this clearly doesn’t mind us knowing who these three were.’ She collected all the IDs in another evidence bag, which she passed to Amala, before turning back to Pritchard. ‘So, what actually killed them?’

The pathologist sucked in a long breath, huffed it back out. ‘I’ll have to get back to you on that one.’

‘We don’t need absolutes, Gerry.’

His expression soured. ‘We’ve checked all three bodies and—’

‘You can’t be certain,’ Hawkins said. ‘Fair enough. How many possibilities are there?’

‘That’s just it, Detective. I can’t give you a potential cause of death …’ Pritchard exchanged disconsolate glances with one of his team before going on, ‘… because we can’t find one.’

3

Hawkins stared down at the bodies, trying to fathom the implications of Pritchard’s statement.

No apparent cause of death.

The scenario was almost unheard of in crime scene investigation, especially with more than one body involved. It wasn’t unusual for murder victims to exhibit two or more potentially fatal injuries. Often the question wasn’t which would have killed the subject; just which had occurred first.

She regarded the pathologist. ‘How do you rule out somatic causes at this stage, when the bodies are so badly damaged?’

Pritchard swiped unsuccessfully at a passing fly. ‘Because everything you see here happened post-mortem, Detective. The deterioration is just nature reclaiming temporarily leased materials. As far as we can tell, all three bone structures are intact. There are no residual signs of physical assault, certainly nothing serious enough to kill.’

‘Drugs?’ Amala asked.

‘That’s possible, Sergeant, of course, but there are no needle marks on what remains of exposed vein-rich areas, nor powder traces in nasal cavities, indeed any signs of substance abuse at all. We found no vessels or packets in which drugs could have arrived.’

‘How about environmental toxicity?’ Hawkins pointed at the section of gas pipe inexplicably traversing one corner of the room.

The pathologist narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Also routinely explored. In this case we lack chemical burns to what’s left of airways. More convincingly, perhaps, carbon monoxide poisoning would be unlikely to have killed one of them, let alone all three. Unless they all happened to be lying here unconscious and stripped to the waist when such a leak occurred – a leak that has since corrected itself, by the way. This was no accident.’

‘OK,’ Amala said. ‘So how do we know it’s murder and not suicide?’

Pritchard held her gaze for a second. ‘Experience, frankly.’ He waved at the room. ‘As you can imagine, I’ve seen my share of suicides. Most perpetrators take measures to ensure no one else is blamed, while a few try to frame their enemies on the way out. But I’ve yet to see anyone attempt to obscure all evidence of how they died. Not only is it extremely difficult; it’s pointless. Even if these three were so inclined, to manage it so effectively would require at least the assistance of a fourth party to clear up afterwards … which makes this euthanasia. And that, without wishing to tell you people your jobs, is illegal, isn’t it?’ He stopped, eyebrows raised.

‘Point taken,’ Hawkins interjected, aware that the stench was making everyone cranky, and not wishing to undermine Pritchard. ‘What are our chances of clean DNA traces?’

‘Not spectacular. The flat’s recent forensic history reveals a distinct lack of hygiene-aware occupants so, as you can imagine, the whole place is highly contaminated. There’s DNA from dozens of different people who passed through in the not-too-distant past, and the flat clearly hasn’t been properly cleaned for years, which presents a sizeable challenge to my team in extracting any useful information about recent visitors. We’ll keep trying, of course.’

‘Sod’s law,’ Hawkins said. ‘When will we get post-mortem results?’

‘We’ll finish up here and move operations back to the lab.’ Pritchard’s gaze returned briefly to the bodies. ‘I’ll work on them this afternoon. You’ll have everything I can give you by tomorrow morning at the latest.’

Hawkins thanked the pathologist and let him rejoin his team, before turning to Amala. ‘Get some support down here and do the rounds. Find out if the locals saw anything in the last few weeks that might be relevant. I’ll call the office and find someone to work on a full name, address and next of kin for Kowalski, then wait for the scene to be released and take a closer look.’ She glanced back as they headed for fresh air. ‘I have a feeling there’s a lot more to this one than meets the eye.’

5

Hawkins drummed at the steering wheel, waiting for the octogenarian resident to steer his car clear of the space. The fourteen-point manoeuvre encompassed high revs, a nudge into the Ford behind him and a perilous lurch around the old Jag in front, but at last it crept away, gifting Hawkins the only gap on the crowded little street.

She parked her Alfa Romeo Giulietta and sat for a moment, staring through the raindrops lightly dusting her window at the business on the opposite side of the road. The reason for her visit.

Streatham Motors.

The garage consisted of two run-down buildings crammed into a right-angled corner plot. Wide, shuttered openings dominated both fascias, and the painted walls which had probably been white at some point now wore a thick layer of grease.

Hawkins’ decision to park out on the road was due partly to the multiple tired vehicles littering the on-site parking, and partly to her desire to get a feel for the place before she went marching inside.

Despite her difficulty in finding a space, the road wasn’t a busy one. Most vehicles appeared to be bound in some way for the garage itself, some pulling up outside, others driving straight in, most either customers or delivery vans like the one pulling up as she watched.

The young Speedyparts driver was tanned and athletic, more surfer than glorified postman. He abandoned his red combi van blocking the road, leaving his door open with reggae music blaring, and grabbed a parcel off the passenger seat before disappearing inside.

Seconds later he was back, swinging his dreads, joining Bob Marley loudly in chorus and tugging at the crotch of his overalls as he swung himself back into the seat.

Hawkins watched him take off before turning her attention back to the business, noting the gaps where two letters were absent from the large sign above the main entrance, thinking about the evidence that had led her here.

STREA HAM M TORS was the sole regular depositor of funds into the largely inactive current account of J. Kowalski, erstwhile occupant of the third decaying body discovered that morning in a condemned Brixton flat. Having no more to aid their search than the debit card found in the pile of his discarded clothing, the team had gone straight to the corresponding bank, and after a faltering start, Santander had finally coughed up some details about their customer.

Twenty-two-year-old Joel Kowalski had opened the account three months before he died, using an address on Danbrook Road, just two minutes’ drive from the garage. The house turned out to be a pinched three-bed terrace with a front garden full of building detritus. And no answer at the door.

After three increasingly loud knocks, and sufficient peering through the front windows to satisfy herself that no one was home, Hawkins had chosen to investigate his probable workplace instead. Four hundred pounds a month looked like a part-time wage, but the payments were regular enough to suggest employment of some kind.

On the way, she had checked in with Amala, who had been joined by DS Sharpe in seeking out next of kin for the other victims. Their primary objective, aside from breaking the news to loved ones, was to create a list of people who might be interested in causing physical harm to the deceased. They were also trying to establish how familiar with one another, if at all, the three men had been.

So far, Amala had tracked down Colin Wilson’s ex-wife, Amanda, and arranged for family liaison officers to collect the couple’s twin girls from school while she continued trying to extract information from the legal secretary, who was in a state after learning of her former husband’s death. Their marriage had dissolved two years ago, mainly because thirty-year-old Wilson had often disappeared for weeks at a time pursuing stories. This partly explained why his recent two-week absence hadn’t been reported, but other than this Amala was yet to glean anything useful.

Aaron, having returned from his training course, had been doing the same for the remaining victim, William Tennent. The twenty-five-year-old entrepreneur had lived alone in Camberwell, and there were no records of family in or around the capital. The reason for this was that Tennent’s parents now lived in Portugal, according to his accountant whom Aaron had managed to locate.

Apparently, Tennent had been a loner who kept details about his private life largely to himself. All the accountant knew was that his client and occasional drinking partner used various dating apps to meet other men for casual fun, but none was ever discussed or referred to by name.

Ultimately, neither Tennent nor Wilson was known to have been in any significant trouble that might threaten their wellbeing. And neither living party appeared to know the other two victims.

Both reports stank of dead end.

Which left Joel Kowalski as their sole remaining hope of a decent primary lead. But if the information yielded by Hawkins’ visit to Streatham Motors was similarly innocuous, they could all kiss goodbye to a swift resolution. Despite her initial excitement, Hawkins’ mind kept drifting back to her own situation. And, more importantly, the question of how she was going to placate Mike.

On second thoughts, distraction might be the last thing she needed.

Yet she could hardly rock up in front of Chief Superintendent Vaughn, two months after being instated as a fully fledged DCI, asking to forgo a major investigation so she could resolve a relationship hiccup. If she went to the DCS for anything, it would be for extra resource to manage what was already starting to look like a potentially complicated case.

She tried to focus on the task at hand, looking back to the garage, where activity remained at a low ebb. No cars had arrived or left since Mr Speedyparts’ exodus, and as if to emphasize the lull, two young guys in stained overalls emerged from the shadows, propped themselves against one of the cars and lit cigarettes. They chatted for a moment, both glancing up and down the street before their collective gaze settled on Hawkins.

Realizing that her presence had clearly drawn attention, she grabbed her bag off the passenger seat and stepped out of the Giulietta.

‘Hello, gentlemen.’ She crossed the pavement and produced her warrant card. ‘Who’s in charge here today?’

Frowns were exchanged before the taller man jabbed a thumb at the rickety, windowed structure just inside the garage, a reconstituted conservatory with the word Reception stencilled above the door.

‘Vladimir,’ he said in a flat Baltic drawl. ‘He take dump at moment. You wait in office if like.’

Hawkins discounted the gratuitous level of detail. ‘What’s his surname?’

The question silenced her initial responder, either because he didn’t understand or because he saw no reason to tell her, but after a few seconds his smaller colleague replied, ‘Kask.’

‘Thanks.’ She left them and wandered in, making the fragile structure wobble as she yanked open the door. Inside she ignored the stained seating and turned to assess the better view she now had of activity inside Streatham Motors.

Beyond the dirty glass, three car pits dropped below ground level in the once-red concrete, two of which were occupied by a vehicle. Somewhere beneath the nearest one, a mechanic was banging at the underside of a small white van, and opposite it was an abandoned dark blue Fiesta with non-matching alloys. The back wall was almost entirely obscured by stacks of tyres, a few posters hung here and there on the breeze-block walls, corners flapping in the breeze, and through the open shutters Hawkins could see the smoking mechanics. Otherwise the place was deserted.

After a few minutes a stocky, bearded man emerged through an open door. Hawkins placed him immediately as the boss, partly because he was appreciably older than the other mechanics – somewhere in his forties – and because as he walked across to join her in the conservatory, he was still fastening his trousers.

He paused in the doorway as Hawkins turned, fixing her with a look suggesting he preferred to deal with husbands and fathers.

‘Can I help you?’ The accent matched his mechanics’; but his English was far more precise.

Hawkins kept her expression non-committal. ‘Are you Vladimir?’

‘Yes.’ He moved closer, letting the door shut behind him. ‘But we are booked up for two months. There is other place on high street.’

‘I’m not here about a car.’ Hawkins held up her ID. ‘I’m interested in one of your employees, Joel Kowalski.’

She watched Kask’s expression move from mild surprise through deliberation to guardedness, which she took to mean that the garage owner was probably playing fast and loose with employment regulations.

He considered her for a moment. ‘Yes, he was working for me.’

‘Was. Did he leave?’

‘Not exactly.’ Kask moved round behind the dirt-streaked counter. ‘I … suspend him.’

‘Why?’

‘He was … unreliable, you know, head in clouds.’

‘Preoccupied, maybe,’ Hawkins offered. ‘Was he in some kind of trouble?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Then what was the problem?’

Kask crossed his arms. ‘Boy wasn’t paying attention, miss too many shifts, so I send him away, tell him to … get head straight. If there is no improvement when he returns, he must find new job; other place to live.’

Hawkins frowned. ‘You own the house on Danbrook Road.’

‘Yes. Numbers sixty-eight to seventy-four.’ He motioned towards the workshop. ‘All jobs come with accommodation.’

Which explained why Kowalski’s wage was low.

Hawkins glanced around as the two mechanics she’d seen outside passed the window, heading for the blue Fiesta. ‘Are all your staff from the continent?’

He nodded. ‘Everyone has visa. You want to see?’

‘No thanks, I’m only interested in Kowalski. Can you tell me a bit more about him?’

The garage owner sniffed and looked around as the manic buzz of an air compressor cracked the relative peace beyond the glass.

He turned back. ‘Joel worked at my brother’s garage in Estonia, came to UK three months ago, I don’t know why. But he is good mechanic, so I took him on.’

‘Did he have friends or family here?’

‘He did not mention.’

‘When did you last have contact?’

Kask’s frown deepened. ‘Maybe … couple of weeks. The day I suspend him.’

Hawkins waited for him to ask why she wanted to know, a natural question given the circumstances. But no query came. ‘Aren’t you concerned about not having heard from Joel, especially when you’re housing him for free?’

He shrugged. ‘I live here; visit staff houses on Friday afternoons. Joel is not there on my last two visits. He has one week left, then back to work or out. He knows it.’

Hawkins was about to press the point when she heard the door behind her open, and turned to see a skinny man in his twenties wearing a short leather jacket enter the reception area. He eyed Hawkins briefly before Kask addressed him in the much friendlier tone clearly reserved for customers.

‘Mr Richards.’ The garage owner fumbled with some paperwork. ‘She is all done, good as new.’ He waved at the blue Fiesta, as one of the mechanics started the car and began reversing it off the pit. ‘How do you wish to make payment?’

The younger man finally removed his gaze from Hawkins. ‘Card.’

Vladimir produced a terminal and handed it over, while Hawkins watched the Fiesta pull up by the exit. The taller mechanic she’d seen outside came to the doorway before pitching the keys to his boss.

Moments later the customer was on his way and Vladimir returned, once again sporting his dour expression. ‘Is that all?’

‘Not quite.’ Hawkins waited for him to close the door, then produced enlarged copies of the mugshots from Colin Wilson’s security ID and William Tennent’s driving licence. ‘Do you recognize either of these men?’

Panic flashed in Kask’s eyes as he stepped forwards to study the pictures briefly before looking up. ‘No.’

There was no obvious deceit in his expression, and at last he asked, ‘What is this about?’

Hawkins put the photos away, now wondering if she’d misjudged the man. ‘Joel Kowalski was found dead this morning.’

Kask stared at her briefly before his gaze fell away, and he stared into space for a moment before turning back and repeating the word as if hoping he had misunderstood. ‘Dead?’

‘Yes, at a flat in Brixton. Do you have any idea why he might have been there?’

‘Brixton.’ The garage owner paused again, then shook his head. ‘No.’

‘When did he last sleep at the house on Danbrook Road?’

‘I don’t know. You must ask his housemates. Mikael and … Aleks.’

‘Are they here?’

‘Not today. Both day off.’

He looked genuinely shocked.

Hawkins relented. ‘OK. I’ll need to speak with all your employees, especially those two. Was Joel close to any of them?’

‘I don’t know.’ Kask was getting steadily whiter; perhaps he was more emotionally invested in his staff than he liked to advertise.

Deciding to go easy on him, Hawkins spent a few minutes questioning the three lads on-site, gleaning nothing of importance, and returned to her car. She drove towards Danbrook Road, hoping that Kask would deliver on his promise to contact all the other staff and have them return home immediately, because if any had useful information about the days and weeks prior to Kowalski’s death, she could do without making several round trips to collect it.

Plus, if the suspicion she still couldn’t shake about the garage having bypassed an employment directive or two was correct, she wanted to minimize the opportunity for cover stories to be agreed.

Because the more interest people had in lying to protect themselves, the less concerned they became about offering help to those who needed it.

Prologue

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