Cold Revenge (Willis/Carter #6)(31)

‘A toast to Ash and his mum,’ said Cathy as she poured out shots and handed them around.

‘Where is he?’ asked Yvonne, staring at the scene, transfixed by the sight of twenty-foot flames, angry, searing into the blue sky, choked by black smoke.

‘He’s found his freedom.’

‘Where has he gone?’ Yvonne looked at Cathy.

‘Away.’

‘What did he say?’

Cathy turned away irritated. ‘How the fuck do I know. Toast to Ash,’ she raised her glass, ‘to his stinky old van, to his mad mother, a toast to them all.’





Chapter 19


In the morning Willis switched off her alarm and sat up in bed. She swung her legs over the side and sat for a moment feeling the itchy cheap carpet beneath her bare feet before she stood and began pulling on her running kit. She had time for a quick run; it would sort her head out for the day. She picked up her trainers and crept downstairs from her top-floor room. She heard her housemate Tina’s radio on; she was listening to Radio 2. Willis skipped lightly down the rest of the stairs, opened the front door, slipped on her trainers and began running. The day was glorious; she ran past Mo’s convenience store on the corner, past the new Spanish restaurant and the Greek café and across the Green and into the park. She felt free when she ran. She could lift her head and look forward and feel like her feet were flying and she was soaring into the sky, and when her feet felt like lead she could turn her thoughts to things that were troubling her and take her mind off the run. It was therapy, whichever way she looked at it. Halfway around the park she got a call.

‘DS Willis?’

‘Yes,’ she answered, jogging on the spot.

‘A woman has been found dead in a flat in Homerton, Sarge.’

‘Who found her?’

‘The vicar, Sarge. She lives alone.’

‘Ring DCI Carter and tell him I’ll meet him there.’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

Forty minutes later, Willis and Carter stood on one side of the busy road in Hackney looking across at a three-storeyed block of flats behind a high laurel hedge. They could just see the top floor of the building. Between them and the laurel hedge was a hissing stream of traffic.

Willis followed Carter as they dodged across the busy road, past the police car, and then walked up the side street. Cedar Road was lined with London planes losing their leaves.

They stopped at the entrance to Cedar Court, a large, brightly lit porch with dying insects gathering in its corners, chipped-paint mailboxes and a concrete flight of stairs leading to the upper floors. They were met by a community support officer, standing alert and enthused.

Willis and Carter showed their warrant cards.

‘Straight through the doors and on your right, ma’am, sir.’

Laptop, a uniformed police constable, was waiting for them at the entrance to flat number six on the lower floor. They knew him from Archway Police Station.

‘Remind me who found her?’ asked Willis.

‘The local vicar, Sarge, he had tried to reach her last evening and didn’t get a reply so came round early this morning,’ Laptop answered. ‘He confirmed her name as Melanie Drummond. A paramedic confirmed death. House-to-house has started. DC Blackman is on it.’

‘Good work,’ said Carter.

‘Where is the vicar now?’ asked Willis.

‘He asked if he could leave,’ answered Laptop, ‘he was pretty shaken up. I took his details; I thought that it would be okay.’

Willis didn’t comment; she was looking down the row of doors under a covered walkway. To her left there was a fenced area of merging front gardens that had their own gates, their own paths, leading to the lane at the back. A toddler was riding a trike on the path between the strips of grass; the woman with her was keeping an eye on proceedings.

‘Did you go inside?’ Carter asked Laptop.

Laptop passed Willis and Carter the crime scene log to sign.

Willis walked across to the woman who was now pushing her little girl on the trike.

‘Do you speak English?’

The woman nodded.

‘Do you live here?’

‘Yes.’ She pointed to a flat on the second floor with a purple door and a boarded-up window.

‘What’s your name, please?’ Willis took out her notebook to write it down.

‘Mrs Aziz.’

‘Do you know the lady who lives in that flat, number six?’

Mrs Aziz shook her head. She was layered against the cold. Her black hair and her round face were sheathed in a red cloth arranged around her head and draped over her shoulders, bright against the grey sky.

‘Have you had a problem? What about the window?’ asked Willis.

The woman shook her head. ‘Children do it.’

‘How long have you lived here, Mrs Aziz?’ asked Willis.

The woman tipped her hand in the air, thinking. ‘Maybe year and a half?’

‘And you have never spoken to the woman who lived in that flat?’

‘Sometimes I see her, say hello, that’s all.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

‘Yesterday in the middle of the day. Here. I was in the garden with my daughter.’

‘Did you hear any noises coming from the flat in the last few days? Anything strange?’