Even someone as obtuse as Faraday could sense that May was getting at something. The civil servant realised there would be no easy enjoyment of the sandwiches. He raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘I mention this,’ said May casually, ‘because it looks like organised crime has already returned to the area. Today one of my men found a headless body in a shop on the Caledonian Road, right near the main line station.’
Faraday’s eyes widened imperceptibly. He could see himself missing the 5:45 p.m. train home from Charing Cross. ‘Your men?’ he said. ‘You don’t have any men anymore.’
‘It looks to me like a professional execution, because the head has been expertly removed. The odd part is that other identifying marks remain. There are no further injuries, so I think there’s a reasonable chance that if we find his head there’ll be a single bullet wound in it.’
‘You know that Operation Trident was set up to combat gun-related activity—’
‘—within London’s young black communities, yes, but this is different. The victim is a white man in his early to mid-thirties.’
‘What were you doing there in the first place? You have no authority—’
‘It was a coincidence. One of my detective constables happened to be working on the site.’
‘I assume you’ve turned the case straight over to Islington.’ The London Metropolitan Police did not come under Faraday’s control, and out of sight was out of mind.
‘I’m not sure whose jurisdiction the case falls under. The boundary line between the policing areas lies somewhere along the Caledonian Road. Besides, a crime like this fits our exclusive remit, Leslie, you know that.’
‘Your remit died with the closure of the division.’
‘If organised crime returns to the area, public confidence will be undermined and overseas investors will start to pull out. There are literally hundreds of buyers waiting to see how the regeneration is handled before they commit, and something like this could do a lot of damage. It’s a contract killing; the head has been cut off with the kind of professionalism you usually only get from a surgeon—or maybe the butchers in Smithfield Market. We’ll be lucky if it ever turns up at all. Maybe the killer was intending to remove the hands, but was disturbed before he could do so. The case requires special attention and the Met is simply not equipped—’
‘Neither are you,’ Faraday interrupted. ‘The unit would have to be rehoused and staff and facilities reassembled before you could touch this. No, I’m sorry, John, it’s impossible, there’s no way I can sanction it. I wouldn’t be able to without Mr Kasavian’s approval anyway, and you know how he feels about the unit. You really should never have crossed him. When you leave here, you need to report your findings to Islington, who’ll probably pass them on to SOCA. Give their officers everything you know and take them into the site at once; otherwise, I’m afraid it will be my sad duty to report you for obstruction. Pass me one of those salmon fingers, would you?’
John sank back in his chair, defeated. He knew that the only person who might be able to change the situation now was Arthur Bryant, because he had old friends in the Home Office who operated on levels above Faraday and Kasavian. He had spoken to Alma Sorrowbridge a few minutes earlier, but she had warned him that any visit would be met with a rebuff. When Bryant made up his mind, it stayed that way.
Late that afternoon, members of Islington’s Operational Command Unit turned up at number 73 Caledonian Road to remove the freezer and its grisly contents. They also took Rafi Abd al-Qaadir into custody for questioning. Despite May’s best efforts the case was lost to the Met and divisions beyond, and the PCU remained in a state of limbo.
Leslie Faraday went home with a guilty weight on his mind and chronic indigestion in his gut.
9
STAG NIGHT
The sifting silver rain had not managed to dampen anyone’s spirits. Most of the partygoers had made their way along the broad, empty road to the club as if taking a stroll on a summer’s night. Certainly many seemed dressed for hiking, in boots and jeans, browns and greys, baggy woollen sweaters and padded jackets. The idea of donning outrageous outfits at the start of the weekend was losing its appeal in the capital, as if the young were too worried about their places in the world to appear frivolous. Besides, it was considered provincial to be seen wandering about in white-feathered angel wings and bare midriffs, which better belonged on teenagers from unfashionable towns. London’s nightclub denizens associated dourness with sophistication, although they still bellowed into the dawn sky and woke whole neighbourhoods after a night of dancing and a few happy pills.