‘I’ve got a couple of officers stationed outside his flat,’ said Henley. ‘Tenth floor and word of warning, the lift is broken.’
‘Why are the lifts always out? I used to be the fastest 1,500 metre runner in my school. Ran for the county and now look at me,’ Ramouter said. He placed his hands on his thighs and tried to catch his breath.
‘The better question is why are the council estates always in a state of disrepair?’ Henley replied. She leaned against the wall, her view of London slightly obscured by the green anti-bird netting that stretched from the balcony wall to the ceiling. A policewoman stood outside flat 85, shifting from foot to foot as she spoke to a CSI officer, adjusting his camera.
‘It’s quite a view,’ said Ramouter as his breathing steadied. ‘London keeps on surprising me.’
‘And it won’t stop,’ said Henley. ‘Right now, unless there’s an eyewitness or there’s evidence inside to tell us otherwise, we’re working on the premise that he’s a victim.’
‘Thrown and didn’t fall,’ Ramouter said with a nod as they walked towards the flat. ‘I noticed that the communal door lock is broken.’
‘There’s no cameras around the communal area, on any of the floors and I didn’t notice any at the rear of the building where the body was found,’ said Henley as the officer recorded both of their names in the logbook.
‘It’s a maisonette,’ Ramouter observed as he pointed at the narrow staircase.
‘Must be two bedrooms minimum,’ said Henley as she turned back and checked the front door. ‘No signs of damage to the lock.’
‘It hardly looks lived in. It reminds me of my place before I moved in,’ said Ramouter as he entered the living room which was minimally furnished with a single armchair and a small circular dining table.
Henley’s eyes tracked the clumps of damp soil and moss to a giantmonstera plant that was on its side, roots exposed. A spattering of broken plaster and a screw still attached to a red wall plug was next to the empty bottle of beer near Henley’s feet. She looked up above the door that led to the balcony. The first hook on the curtain rail had pulled away from the wall causing the curtains that framed the door to unevenly drag on the floor. The room told a story of struggle.
Ramouter pointed at the carpet close to his feet. ‘He resisted,’ he said. Soil had been ground into two heel shaped marks slightly wider than hip distance apart which merged into two thick drag marks leading to the balcony.
‘We’ve got blood on the back of the armchair and on the door frame,’ said Anthony who was standing on the opposite side of the room writing a note on his chart. ‘It’s not a lot of blood but it’s enough.’
‘So, he’s attacked in here and dragged out to the balcony,’ said Henley. She turned and faced the open door that led into the hallway. ‘But there’s no damage to the front door, so he must have let them in,’ she mused.
‘My wife used to leave the door on the latch for me all the time back in the day,’ said Anthony. ‘But I only do it when I’m putting the bins out.’
‘We’re assuming that it was our victim who left the door on the latch?’ Ramouter said as he stepped out onto the balcony followed by Henley. The balcony was chaos. Soil and broken pieces of ceramic plant pot were scattered on the ground. A second beer bottle was in pieces next to an upended teal coloured bistro table and chairs.
‘All of the struggle takes place right here,’ said Henley as she looked over the balcony, the view of Kaiden’s body now obstructed by a white forensic tent. The crowd below had thinned out. Henley straightened up. She had the feeling that she was being watched. To her left, the occupants of number 83 were on their balcony straining to see their neighbour’s flat.
‘This time last night, Kaiden was dragged kicking and screaming and thrown to his death,’ said Henley. ‘I’m finding it difficult to believe that no one heard a thing.’
Ramouter blew out his cheeks. ‘Maybe they did and just ignored it. Just another day on the block.’
‘Any signs of a disturbance upstairs?’ Henley asked Anthony.
‘No,’ Anthony said. ‘But there’s more stuff up there than there is down here.’
The first bedroom showed signs of living with an opened duffle bag filled with clothes, and a blue towel on top of the unmade bed.
Henley opened the door of the second bedroom. ‘Oh wow,’ she said.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Ramouter, following Henley into the room. ‘Ezra would pass out if he saw this.’
The bedroom had been converted into a computer room. Two large monitors sat on a desk. A black PC base unit, with a violent neon light glowing through a transparent side panel was on the side. An opened laptop also sat on the desk next to an expensive digital camera. However, the computer equipment wasn’t what held Henley’s attention. On the third wall was a noticeboard covered with a map and photographs of the victims on the SCU’s murder board, but it was the photograph on the top of the board that had caused a tightness in Henley’s chest. The image was crystal clear, picking up every leaf on the trees that the council had neglected to prune. In the distance was a little girl, her back turned, as she faced the woman in front of her. Even if Henley hadn’t been sure of the identity of the second woman in the photo, wearing a trench coat and a baseball cap, she was 100 per cent sure of two things: that was her street and the little girl in the photo was her daughter.
‘Boss, is everything all right?’ asked Ramouter.
‘This photograph was taken outside my house. The day that Sian Fox-Carnell turned up,’ said Henley.
‘Are you sure?’
‘That’s my street and that’s Emma,’ she said, pointing at the photo as she shook with anger. She did everything she could to protect her family, but it never seemed to be enough. There was always an unseen danger at her doorstep. She wanted to tear the photograph in two, to remove the shame and fear, but she couldn’t. The photograph was evidence.
‘But she wasn’t watching you. He was clearly following Fox-Carnell.’
