Good Bait (DCI Karen Shields #1)(30)
‘All right, we hung out for a while, went to a couple of gigs here and there – he didn’t have many friends, I don’t know why. After we played soccer a few times, went back to the café…’
‘The Chiswick café?’
‘Yes, after that he sort of latched on to me. For a while anyway. I suppose I felt a bit sorry for him. Living with some uncle over Wood Green somewhere. Least, that’s what he said.’
‘You didn’t believe him?’
‘I don’t know. It was all a bit – you know – vague. We were going to go over there once, I remember, he sort of built it up, then at the last minute he called it off, something about his uncle being busy, not wanting to be disturbed. Way he said it, just seemed a bit strange that’s all.’
‘You carried on seeing him?’
‘Maybe not as much. I had all this work, you know, college. Different assignments. I was busy, and he – most of the time, he didn’t seem to be doing anything. Just hanging out. And then there was all that stuff with Lesley. Her friend, the one Petru was going with, Sasha, every time I’d see her it’d be, oh, why don’t you get in touch with Lesley, send her a text, she’s dying to see you, blah, blah, blah. I got sort of sick of it.’
Karen took a mouthful of coffee. No better nor worse than she’d expected.
‘Petru, you say he spent a lot of time just hanging out?’
‘Yes.’
‘He didn’t have a job, then? Wasn’t studying, anything like that?’
‘He’d applied. Some college, to do I’m not sure what. Computer stuff, maybe. IT. I don’t even know if he got in or not. If he did get a place, he never took it up.’
‘And a job? Presumably if you were going out places, he had cash in his pocket from somewhere?’
‘I don’t know. He helped out his uncle sometimes, that’s all he ever said.’
‘Doing what, d’you know?’
‘No.’ A quick shake of the head.
‘There’s a suggestion that he might have been dealing drugs.’
‘Petru?’
‘Yes.’
‘No way.’
‘You seem pretty positive.’
‘Yes.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘He wouldn’t even …’ He hesitated.’ If ever, you know, there was something going round, a smoke, a few pills, he’d always pass. Always.’
‘That doesn’t mean …’
‘I know. But, no, Petru getting mixed up in something like that, I just can’t see it. Really.’
He looked at his watch.
‘I should be going.’
‘Okay. Fine.’ She pushed her half-full cup away. ‘This uncle – Petru didn’t mention a name? An address?’
‘Afraid not. He never said anything much about himself at all. Except something once about missing his family, his mother especially. So I guess he wasn’t living with them at least. I got the impression she was still back in Moldova.’
Karen nodded. So far any attempts to contact Petru Andronic’s next of kin via the Moldovan Embassy in Dolphin Square had foundered amidst red tape and inertia. She would get one of the team to make a fresh attempt, diplomatically kick a few backsides.
Out on the street, Milescu following, she took two paces, then stopped. ‘Apparently your father’s been talking to my boss, my boss’s boss. Whatever you’ve got yourself involved in, he seems a bit concerned about.’
‘You serious?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘He’s crazy. I’m not involved in anything.’
I hope not, Karen thought. She slipped one of her cards into his hand. ‘Anything you want to talk about, any time, just give me a call.’
18
The rest of the day passed, for Karen, in some sort of middle-management haze. Questions that were at best half-answered, leads that petered out into blind alleys, areas of inquiry that became abruptly stalled; the distant but familiar sound of heads being banged, relentlessly, against brick walls.
She stopped off at the supermarket on the way home and picked up a couple of ready-cooked meals and some discounted wine. Showered, she was just slipping the lamb kofta and rice into the microwave, a bottle of Shiraz already opened, when Ramsden called, his voice harsher than usual, more abrasive. The sound of a fist being rasped along raw brick.
Karen swore to herself as she listened; switched off the microwave.
‘Be there, Mike, soon as I can.’
Hector Prince’s body had been found jammed into the lift of a high-rise off Tottenham High Road, his left foot and ankle sticking out and preventing the door from closing, the lift marooned on the fourteenth floor. There were numerous stab wounds to his left side and down the backs of both legs, the cuts deep into the muscle of the thigh; his right shoulder blade had been shattered by a heavy blow from something like a baseball bat; something like the baseball bat that had crushed his cheekbone and splintered the cranial bone above the left eye.
He was still alive when the paramedics got to him, breathing but only just, his blood matted against the material of his cuffed fleece trackies and sticking against the already sticky lift floor.
One of the long-term tenants on the floor above, hearing the sounds of the assault, had dialled 999, and, watching from his balcony, seen the attackers flee. Now the lift and stairs were cordoned off, some officers already down on their knees searching for evidence, others beginning the thankless task of knocking on doors.