‘The little shit,’ said Ramouter, turning his phone around so that it was in landscape mode.
‘Who’s a little shit?’ asked Henley, switching off the car engine.
‘Ben Trezeguet. I checked out his YouTube. Take a look.’
Ramouter scrolled back to the beginning of the video and held up his phone. An aerial view of Fox-Carnell’s body swaying gently filled the screen with firemen and CSI officers milling below.
‘Who is the woman on the pier? That is the question that the police officers from the elite Serial Crimes Unit refused to answer this morning. My name is Ben Trezeguet and welcome to this special edition ofFreedom News. Deptford has transformed itself into an “up and coming” area full of young families so you can imagine the shock that a local resident had when he discovered a woman’s body hanging by a bloody noose over the River Thames on Glaisher Street, while walking his dog. The arrival of officers from the Serial Crime Unit, which you may recall were responsible for the investigation into The Jigsaw Man copycat case a few years ago, can only mean one thing: there’s a serial killer at large in South-East London’
‘He’s not working alone,’ Henley said. ‘I didn’t see him with a remote control for the drone when I dragged him away. The last thing we need is for that footage to be all over the internet when we haven’t even spoken to the family yet.’
‘Too late for that,’ Ramouter replied. ‘It’s not so easy to put the toothpaste back in the tube. He’s already shared it to all his social media channels and people are speculating in the comments.’
‘I suppose we should count our blessings that this Ben idiot wasn’t able to get any footage of Fox-Carnell’s face, but that’s not the only thing that concerns me,’ Henley said.
‘How did he get the information?’ said Ramouter and they began to walk along the pavement. ‘Some he could have guessed but to specifically name the SCU? Either he has a contact at the 999 control room or he has a police scanner.’
Henley stopped outside the last house on the terrace. She pushed the gate open and walked up a black-and-white checkered pathway towards the Victorian building. The wooden blinds inside the window were closed and a thick film of grey dust coated the slats.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Ramouter as Henley moved closer to the window.
‘Take a look,’ Henley answered, pointing at the red smears on the window frame and paving stones.
‘If the paint matched the window frames or even the planter, I would have said that it was an accident. But red paint. Bright red paint?’
‘Red is a warning,’ Ramouter replied. He moved away from the window and pressed the doorbell.
Henley took out her phone and took a photograph of the frame. ‘A warning to whom?’ she asked. ‘The people inside or outside?’
‘Could be both,’ Ramouter went quiet when the door was answered.
Disappointment was etched in every wrinkle and crease on the face of the woman standing in the doorway.
‘Hello, Linda,’ said Henley, stepping towards the door. ‘I’m not sure if you remember me, I’m—’
‘I do and I bet you’re loving every minute of this,’ Linda replied coldly, her hands gripping the side of the door. ‘You lot kept my baby away from me. For so many years. And now you’ve got your bloody wish.’
‘This is my partner, Detective Constable Ramouter,’ said Henley as a man made his way down the hallway.
‘I don’t give a toss who he is,’ Linda replied angrily. Her swollen eyes reddened and filled with tears. ‘Just piss—’
Linda stopped herself but the anger on her face remained. The man behind her reached out and squeezed her shoulder.
‘Hello, Keith,’ Henley said to Sian’s stepfather.
‘Come in,’ he said, gently manoeuvring his wife away from the door.
Keith sat down in an armchair as Linda looked on disapprovingly, her features hardening as the minutes passed and the tea in her hand cooled. ‘We haven’t seen her yet,’ he said. ‘Linda doesn’t want to formally identify her because that will mean that it’s true. That our girl isn’t coming back to us, but I need … need to see her for myself.’
Linda shakily brought her chipped cup to her lips and Keith fiddled with a remote control.
‘The police officers who were here earlier. They sounded as though they were still unsure. That it could be any ol’ Tom, Dick or Henrietta lying there in the morgue. That it may not be our kid,’ said Keith. ‘They give you hope. But it’s not true. Everyone knows that it’s your kid.’
The room was dark and oppressive. The only light came from the flashing images on the television in the corner of the room. An old modular wall unit was filled to bursting with books, DVDs and family photos but the wall to Henley’s right was a photographic journal dedicated to Sian. Henley watched Sian’s life progress from birth, to school, graduation, her first day as a nurse outside Guy’s Hospital and finally a photograph of Sian sitting on a sun lounger holding a wine glass. Sian wasn’t Linda and Keith’s only child, but she’d clearly been the favourite.
‘I’m sorry for what you’re going through,’ Henley said, pulling herself forward on her chair, closing the space between her and the grieving couple. Ramouter remained seated on an unstable dining room chair.
‘You’re not sorry,’ Linda spat. She placed her mug heavily onto the floor, spilling tea that disappeared into the carpet pile. ‘You hated Sian. Hated her! She told me what you were like in court. Begging the judge to keep her locked up.’
