‘I’ll show you. Just give me a sec,’ Ramouter replied as he turned on his laptop, opened his email account and scrolled down. ‘Ah, here it is. Watch.’
‘Our burglary takes place at number 24 Cullen Lane,’ Ramouter explained. ‘There’s only one way in and out because the council implemented traffic calming measures and blocked the junction with planters. This footage is taken from the last house on the lane.’
Henley leaned forward and watched as a video showed a man run into view. The sound was muted but it didn’t lessen the impact of him being intentionally hit by a speeding car.
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘That wasn’t an accident,’ said Ramouter.
‘So, the driver picks him up and takes him where?’ Henley asked.
‘Back to the property,’ Ramouter answered. He opened the photos that had been forwarded to him by the CSI photographer. ‘A postwoman found him in the middle of his driveway at 8.36 this morning. ’
‘Forced entry?’
‘No evidence of any, but the attack starts in the kitchen, carries on along the hallway and onto the doorstep. There’s blood tracking from inside to the driveway. The victim is injured but not seriously enough to stop him making an initial run for it. He’s then hit by the car. The driver picks him up and dumps him bleeding on the driveway. Not one of the victims in our home invasion cases were able to escape.’
‘Where’s the victim now?’
‘King’s College Hospital,’ Ramouter replied. ‘I have no idea of his prognosis.’
‘And who is he?’
Ramouter leaned back and raised his head to the ceiling. ‘Dr Graham Ashcroft. Fifty-two years old. Married to Tabitha Ashcroft and they have one child, a daughter.’
‘And where were they, the wife and daughter, when all of this was taking place?’
‘According to the officer on scene, his daughter is studying in Canada. His wife wasn’t at the property and the OIC hasn’t been able to get hold of her,’ Ramouter said as he stood up and walked back to the whiteboard.
‘You’re right. It’s too violent,’ Henley conceded, joining him. ‘The extent of it and the targeting of the victim as opposed to his possessions.’
‘That’s it. Ashcroft was the target. Not whatever was in his house or even the car that was on the driveway. The car keys were still on the kitchen counter.’
Henley picked up a marker and wrote Graham Ashcroft’s name on the board and added a question mark. ‘There’s a significant deviation from the MO of the other burglaries. From timing to the assault. Do you really want to devote our limited resources investigating something that is nothing to do with us?’
Henley watched Ramouter closely as she waited for him to answer. When they’d first met, his quiet thoughtfulness was more attached to his newness and his uncertainty as to how he would fit in the close-knit team. Now, it was a sign of how secure he felt with his position.
‘Catch-22,’ he said after a long beat. ‘If we say no, and it turns out that the people who committed our series of burglaries are responsible then we’ll be criticised for passing the buck but we’re still at risk of criticism for taking time and resources away from the home invasions by adding a case that doesn’t fit the MO.’
‘So, what doyouwant to do?’ Henley repeated.
‘Isn’t this above my paygrade?’ he finally asked. ‘Making decisions like this.’
Henley could sense Ramouter’s unease. ‘Yes, it is, but one day it won’t be, so you might as well familiarise yourself now with the feeling of making a decision that can change the trajectory of a case.’
Ramouter shook his head and turned his back to the whiteboard. ‘Boss, I really don’t think that I should be making a decision like this.’
‘Tell me what you want to do with the case.’
Ramouter exhaled with resignation. ‘Can I have a bit of time? Let me have another chat with the OIC, DC Copeland, and go through the preliminary CSI reports. I also want to speak to Graham Ashcroft, that’s if he’s up to it.’
‘Fine,’ said Henley. ‘You’ve got forty-eight hours.’
6
Sian Fox-Carnell pulled at the cuff of her tracksuit bottoms. She huffed and tutted in disappointment when the material failed to cover the electronic tag on her right ankle. The tag – and the restrictions on her life – angered her, but she’d hidden that when she sat next to Susanna Reid onGood Morning Britain, looking every inch like a woman who had been let down by anot fit for purposejustice system. She’d hooked strands of unwashed hair behind her ears, winced when she’d touched the bruise on her cheek and had fiddled nervously with the buttons on her dress. She’d worn the same dress when she’d appeared onNewsnightthe night before and had dabbed Vicks VapoRub in the corners of her eyes. She’d cried when she said that she wished she’d been there when Leonard Calgary had died and that she blamed herself. Sian knew what she was doing. She was appealing to the public, to that man and woman who may be a potential juror on her trial in twelve months. The sounds of the train departing Brockley train station rumbled behind her as she checked the map app on her phone. Her destination was a twelve-minute walk away. Sian pushed her phone back into her bag, adjusted her headphones and walked along Coulgate Street. She felt her heartbeat increase as she obeyed the guided instructions and turned onto Foxberry Street.
‘When is Daddy coming home?’ Emma asked as she held on firmly to Henley’s hand.
