Eleven Days Page 4

  5

  He’d missed his morning coffee. As he sipped his glass of water, he looked out at the sea of faces gathered in the main room of the CID building. Flashbulbs popped and stuttered, making him squint and blink, as reporters found their seats for the morning’s press conference.

  It was the worst possible way to begin a case. Carrigan had wanted to start the day with an initial briefing to his team but Branch had been waiting for him in the incident room. The press conference had been set up last night on ACC Quinn’s express orders. Quinn now sat to his right on the podium, the Met logo draped behind him, Branch flanking Carrigan’s other side.

  Carrigan took another sip of water, feeling everyone’s eyes on him. His head raged with pain, his stomach flip-flopping like a rollercoaster. He hadn’t got drunk for a long time but he’d got drunk last night. In the living room, in his favourite armchair, watching the cars outside his window ignite the darkness. He’d fallen asleep and dreamed of his mother trapped in a burning church, strapped to her bed, slowly disappearing into herself and into time, and woken up dishevelled and dream-haunted and itching to get back to work. Sometimes he thought the job, the obsessiveness it required, the long hours and bad dreams, was a way for him to avoid the complicated process of actually living a life. Other times he knew it was so.

  He cleared his throat, stood up, waited for the cameras to find their focal point and began. ‘At around six o’clock last night, a house in St Peter’s Square caught fire. The fire brigade were despatched to the scene and managed to bring the blaze under control before it could spread to any adjacent residences.’ Flashbulbs popped and Carrigan raised his hand to shield his eyes. ‘When the firemen deemed it safe to enter the premises they discovered several bodies. The building housed a convent used by a small group of nuns. We’re appealing to anyone who might have seen anything unusual in the vicinity of 33 St Peter’s Square yesterday evening to contact us.’ Carrigan took his seat as cameras whirred and competed with the bray of questions from the gathered reporters.

  ‘Is it possible that this was a ritual murder? Black magic?’ a young woman from Sky News asked.

  Carrigan tried to find her face among the bobbing heads. ‘We’re not yet certain that this was an intentional fire, so to make such far-flung speculations would be silly.’

  The woman frowned and wrote something down in her notebook. Carrigan pointed to a reporter from the Times but before the man could get his question out, another voice, painfully familiar, rose from the pack.

  ‘Is there any truth to the rumour that this was a terrorist act?’

  Carrigan scanned the densely packed crowd of reporters till he found Khan. George Khan had been working at the Standard for almost as long as Carrigan had been in the Met. Everyone in the department knew of his reputation for sudden non sequiturs and subtle word traps and they’d all learned to avoid him if they could.

  ‘You know as well as I do, George . . .’ Carrigan glared at the overweight reporter, his suit crumpled and stained, a bottle of Lucozade in his hand and an unlit cigarette jumping between his fingers, ‘that rumours such as that have no place in our investigation.’ Carrigan suspected that Khan had in all likelihood made up the ‘rumour’ himself just to get a quote. ‘There is absolutely no evidence of anything that could be construed as a terrorist act. This wasn’t a bomb, this was a plain ordinary fire that went out of control. We will, of course, be consulting with the fire investigation team as to how it started but that’s all to come. As of now we are treating the fire as suspicious but no more, and I certainly won’t comment on what are mere rumours.’

  He sat down and immediately felt the ACC’s hand on his arm. He turned to see Quinn looking even more ghostly than he had the previous night. The man obviously hadn’t got any sleep. ‘Good work,’ he said quietly into Carrigan’s ear. ‘These things are never easy, son, you’ve done a good job.’

  He was on his way out when he heard Quinn call his name. The cameras and journalists had departed leaving them alone in the cavernous hall. ‘I want you to do this clean and fast, understand?’ Quinn said. ‘It’s probably nothing more than some crazy firebug, so you know what to do.’

  Carrigan nodded. He could see why Quinn had got a reputation as the most feared man in the Met – behind his polite facade there was a steely authority which made it clear he wouldn’t stand for any mistakes or lame excuses.

  ‘The timing’s particularly bad here,’ Quinn continued. ‘The public have a lot more sympathy towards nuns during the festive period. The press have nothing else on their plates. It’s imperative we wrap this up before Christmas.’

  ‘Sir?’ Carrigan said, knowing this would be his one and only chance. ‘I’d rather you gave this to another DI. I’m in the middle of something else at the moment.’

  Quinn coolly appraised him. ‘DSI Branch didn’t mention anything.’

  No, of course not, Carrigan thought. ‘A sixteen-year-old boy went missing three days ago.’

  ‘Young boys go missing all the time, you know that as well as anyone.’

  ‘This is different, sir,’ Carrigan continued. ‘I believe this is linked to several other disappearances over the past few years. I know this is the work of one man and I don’t think we have much time if we want to find the boy alive.’

  Quinn nodded quietly and sank his hands deeply into the pockets of his uniform jacket. ‘You’re in charge of the investigation into this fire. Did I not make myself clear?’ His eyes were cold and pale as a winter sky. ‘It’s time to think about your future, Carrigan. Promotion to DCI. Handle this case right and I’ll put a word in. This other thing, you can pass off to someone else. I want you fully focused on the fire and nothing else. The press will have their eye on you, Carrigan, remember that.’

  6

  The new building. They still called it that even though the Murder Investigation Team had been here almost a year now. Carrigan made his way past the main station entrance, checking the daily incident logs to make sure he was up to speed with what had transpired overnight, then caught the lift, still bristling from his encounter with Quinn.

  The offices were the latest in ergonomic design. Gone were the old yellowed rooms with their institutional fug of microwaved food and stale coffee and in their place were large square spaces, each a replica of the other, fitted with beeping machines and electronic hums that guaranteed you could never get a moment’s peace.

  He entered incident room two and saw that Geneva was already there, sitting at a desk near the back, almost invisible in her cubicle, going through a large stack of reports and slugging on a can of Coke.

  ‘How was it?’ She put the files aside and swivelled her chair towards him. She was wearing a red blouse and a dark skirt, her lower lip swollen from biting down on it, something he’d noticed she did when she was upset.

  ‘Quick, thank God,’ he replied, and started shifting chairs to the main table where they would hold their daily briefings. ‘The ACC even called me son if you can believe that.’

  ‘Sounds like we may not have you for long,’ she replied. ‘I heard that when he calls you son it means you’re on the way up.’

  ‘I heard the opposite,’ Carrigan smiled and pulled out his briefcase. He extracted a handful of A4 photographs of the scene and started pinning them to the surrounding walls. Behind him he could hear the team coming in, sighs short and frequent, nods and subdued greetings, a studied reluctance in every movement and gesture – everyone knew what was waiting for them courtesy of the non-stop footage broadcast and looped on last night’s news.

  ‘Thanks for coming in early,’ Carrigan began, wishing he’d nipped out for that coffee now, his voice scratchy from the smoke. ‘As you know, we’re launching an investigation into the fire at 33 St Peter’s Square. We’ll have two daily briefings here as per usual.’ He ignored the moans and scattered comments from the uniformed constables surrounding him. ‘What we know as of this morning is that 33 St Peter’s Square wasn’t an ordinary family
home. The building was used as a convent by a small group of nuns . . .’ He looked down at the hastily scribbled notes in front of him. ‘The Sisters of Suffering, apparently. Before you ask, I know as much about nuns and orders as I do about quantum theory, which is precisely nothing. The diocese have confirmed that only ten nuns lived on the premises. Now, as most of you know, St Peter’s Square is not your average street. It’s probably the most exclusive address on our patch. Several lords, a sheik or two and, of course, our own assistant chief constable live there, so we’re going to be treading on some toes, that’s inevitable.’

  ‘But we have no indication that the fire was deliberate, right?’ DS Karlson was dressed in a tight pinstripe suit, his hair gelled back and his stubble a dark charcoal shadow on his jaw. His shoes were shiny and black with pointed tips and he was tapping one heel impatiently against the leg of his chair.

  ‘Correct, John, we don’t know that yet.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit premature setting up a major investigation before we know all the facts?’

  Carrigan bridled at the sergeant’s insolence – he knew how important it was to have someone to challenge his basic assumptions and keep him sharp, but there was something else underlying Karlson’s tone, something he didn’t like.

  ‘I agree, but it’s not my decision. Seems that ACC Quinn has taken a personal interest in the case. I think his wife helped them out. So, until we know better, we treat this as a murder inquiry. That way we won’t get caught out if it does indeed prove to be intentional. If it’s an accident then we all get to enjoy our Christmas, no harm done.’

  ‘Except to the nuns.’

  Carrigan’s gaze found Geneva busily scribbling away in her notebook. ‘Thank you, Miller, I think we’re all aware of that.’ He looked up at the photos he’d pinned to the walls – burnt doorways and cracked windows, the dark smear patterns of soot and dust. ‘I’m scheduled to meet the fire investigator later today at the scene. He’ll have spent all morning going through the rubble and should be able to tell us whether we’re wasting our time or not. I’m told the house is now more or less stable, the SOCOs have finally gone in and the bodies have been transferred to the morgue.’

  He paused, slightly out of breath. ‘It’s Christmas – people get drunk and do things they wouldn’t do any other time of year, they play dares and get careless, so keep that in mind.’ Carrigan looked over at his team and sighed. He knew it was the worst possible time to start a murder inquiry – everyone looking forward to well-earned time off, Christmas all planned and prepped for, and he could see that their minds were elsewhere, little tells of daydream and stary absence. For him it was different. He knew the case would take his mind off the festivities and rush of unwanted memories that always came with them – cuddling in front of black-and-white movies, Louise’s yelp of excitement as she unwrapped the tree, hot slow kisses in the rumpled morning.

  He shook the memory free and continued. ‘Cases of arson tend to be either easy to solve or bloody impossible. It’s a crime that wipes out its own traces but, in doing so, it leaves other traces – that said, the snow isn’t going to make it easier for us. Let’s hope the SOCOs got there before too much damage was done.

  ‘Now, there are normally three motives for arson.’ He pointed to the photos of the smoking wreckage pinned up behind him. ‘One: the perpetrator gets off on it. Two: the fire is used to cover up another crime, usually murder. And three: the arsonist has something against that particular property or institution. So we should be thinking about why anyone would have wanted to burn down the convent. Was it a drunken prank that went badly wrong? An accident? Or is the fire somehow symbolic – did someone want the nuns to burn . . . to burn in hell, even? Remember, this isn’t merely a case of arson we’re investigating – this is murder – someone killed eleven people in that building.’

  ‘Eleven?’ DC Singh looked up from her files.

  Carrigan told them about the eleventh victim, the corpse in the confession booth. ‘There were only supposed to be ten nuns in residence but we have eleven bodies. It’s important we keep this detail out of the press for now. I’ll be seeing the diocese later today so I’ll find out if there was a cook or visitor on the premises, but we should initially focus on this person. It’s significant she wasn’t found with the others.’ He stopped and waited for them to take this in, then turned to face the whiteboard next to him. He began jotting down names and tasks, his handwriting impenetrable as ever. ‘Singh, I want you to see if you can find out whether there’ve been any threats or complaints lodged against the convent in the last couple of years.’

  ‘Are you thinking hate crime? Or an abused child taking revenge?’ DC Singh flicked back her lock of black hair and Carrigan was again reminded of her quick intelligence and unerring ability to get straight to the point.

  ‘I’m not thinking anything yet,’ he answered. ‘Let’s see where the evidence leads us first.’ He pointed to the whiteboard. ‘I’ve drawn up an initial wall-chart detailing the positions of the deceased. We need to find out the nuns’ movements and routines – did they always take dinner together? Did they always take it at the same time? Why did they make no move to escape the room?’

  He looked across the table at the serious-eyed young man crouched behind a phalanx of humming laptops. ‘Berman, I want you to go through the video footage of the crowd watching the fire. I got one of the uniforms to film it. Arsonists hang around the scene. They get their kicks from watching things burn. If that’s the case then it’s likely our perpetrator’s on tape. We may get lucky.’ He looked at his team, trying to offer them this small comfort as they slowly came to the realisation that this investigation was going to mean disappointed relatives, refunded train tickets, and presents sitting on a shelf come Christmas morning.

  ‘Jennings, take a couple of uniforms and start door-to-doors. I’ll be joining you later. The snow began falling at six last night. People would have been looking out their windows or sitting on their balconies,’ he continued, remembering the fire party last night. ‘Someone may have seen something, a person running away, anything.’

  He turned to his sergeant. ‘Karlson, I want you checking recently released firebugs – Berman, cross-reference what Karlson finds with the video – oh, and Karlson? See if there’s been any similar fires in the area recently.’ He scanned the table once more, satisfied that all bases had been covered for now. ‘I’m sure you’re well aware that all Christmas leave will be cancelled if this turns out to be arson and we’re left holding the bag, clueless.’ He waited for the groans and sighs to subside. ‘The press is watching us carefully. The public is watching and Quinn is watching. So let’s do everything by the book. If things turn out badly at least we can say we followed every possible line of investigation.’ He closed his policy book and looked up. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘every act leaves a mark upon the world – it’s up to us to find those marks and decipher them. And let’s try and not get too carried away. It could be nothing more than a simple accident, a prank gone wrong.’

  ‘But that’s not what you think, is it?’ Karlson interrupted.

  ‘If I was a betting man, I’d say cancel your appointments for the next few days,’ Carrigan replied. ‘And I hope you’ve already done your Christmas shopping.’

  ‘So we’re looking at this as arson?’ one of the uniforms asked.

  ‘Murder, not just arson. Eleven people died and this in itself makes me suspicious. But it’s not only that. Three things bother me. The fact that the fire started right below where the nuns had just gathered for their evening meal. The fact they didn’t try to escape. The eleventh victim.’

  7

  ‘God, you still stink of smoke,’ Geneva said, rolling down her car window. He noticed she was wearing a new jacket today, one he’d not seen before, and it made her look older and somehow graver.

  ‘Could say the same about you.’ He pointed to the empty pack of cigarettes on the dash, the gaping ashtray too full to close, and smiled
as Geneva turned down Westbourne Grove, heading towards their appointment with the bishop.

  ‘Manage to get any sleep last night?’ he asked as they stalled in traffic.

  ‘Barely. Ended up watching some stupid Italian slasher film till I fell asleep on the sofa.’

  ‘That sounds familiar.’ Carrigan laughed. ‘You ever watch anything apart from horror films?’

  ‘Used to. Not much any more. I like knowing the way it’s going to unfold. Horror films have a structure and that’s comforting.’ She risked a glance at him. ‘Why? What kind of movies do you like?’

  ‘Ones I don’t understand.’

  ‘A film Jack Carrigan doesn’t understand, I’d like to see that.’ Her nails clicked on the steering wheel as she drummed her fingers in frustration while waiting for the lights to change. There was that peculiar look in her eyes he’d noticed before, a rumble of contained energy written in every muscle twitch and eye flicker.

  ‘What’s bothering you?’

  She fumbled for her cigarettes, then gave up. ‘I didn’t want to bring this up in front of the others . . .’

  ‘But?’ Carrigan said, watching her carefully. ‘C’mon, I know that look . . . you may as well tell me.’

  She felt her cheeks flush, embarrassed at having been read so easily yet, at the same time, secretly pleased he’d noticed such a thing. ‘Dare I mention the words mass suicide?’ she said and saw his eyebrows arch slightly as he continued staring out at the snow-covered pavements.

  ‘I very much doubt it,’ Carrigan finally replied.

  ‘Really?’ she said, her voice dropping slightly. ‘It’s not that uncommon to find enclosed religious sects who believe the end of the world is coming and who kill themselves in preparation for the Rapture. Heaven’s Gate, Jonestown . . . the list goes on and on.’