The Memory of Blood(71)

‘We don’t need to come in. But we’re not leaving until we talk to them.’

‘You ain’t from round here, neither. Show me your ID.’

Renfield flashed his PCU badge. He hated its design. He would probably get more respect from waving his coffee loyalty card around. ‘It’s about Anna Marquand.’

‘She been complaining again? Her bloody mother wants to learn to keep her mouth shut.’

‘Anna Marquand is dead.’

Joe’s voice dropped. If nothing else, he had respect for the dead. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know that. But it’s nothing to do with us.’

‘I didn’t say it was. Natural causes, very sudden.’

‘She been buried yet?’

‘No, not yet. The coroner’s inquest still has to be closed.’

‘But if it’s natural causes—’

‘The Unit doesn’t operate under normal police and medical jurisdiction.’

‘Let me know when it is. We’ll send flowers.’

‘Okay, but I’d still like to speak to Ashley Hagan.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve got him ID’d for nicking her mobile phone.’

‘ID’d? Round here? You sure?’ Joe Hagan was clearly certain that no-one was brave enough to make a complaint.

‘He was identified by Anna’s mother.’

‘That old cow sits at the window all day looking for trouble. You can’t believe a word she says.’

‘Probably not. Listen, I’m not going to get a search warrant over a bloody phone, but I have to talk to him, just to say I did, okay?’

Joe blew out through his teeth, thinking. ‘All right, stay there.’

For once, Janice was glad that Renfield had accompanied her. She felt sure Hagan’s attitude would have been more obstructive and antagonistic with her. After a few minutes, Ashley Hagan came downstairs. Longbright immediately saw his past laid out before her. He was a user. She could discern the shape of his skull beneath his yellowed skin. His arms were covered in tattoos, the designs clearly traceable to around 2008. They’d been created to hide track marks. Since then he had probably switched to the backs of his legs. His eyes were turned off. He would steal anything, say anything when the need arose again.

She had seen his type before. But he wasn’t the man who attacked her at the lido.

‘You’re Ashley Dean Hagan, twenty-two years old, yeah?’ said Renfield, checking his pad. ‘You know Anna Marquand of 14 Hadley Street, Bermondsey? Just say yes, lad.’

‘I seen her. Course I seen her. She’s like eight doors along. She had a fight with my sister over bins or summink, I don’t know. I seen her, though.’ Ashley’s speech was rapid-fire and anxious, the kind of speech you used when asking a punter for money and needed to get the sentence out quick before they turned and started to walk away.

‘You were seen taking her mobile phone, so let’s not even argue about that. But she’s dead and I want to know—’ He got no further. Ashley fell back and ran toward the rear of the house with surprising speed. A second later Renfield launched himself inside and Longbright followed.

They ran through the house to the kitchen door, already thrown open, and out into a small square yard filled with children’s toys. Two chained bull mastiffs started jumping up and barking.

Ashley was already over the rear wall. He had climbed on a crate left there for the purpose, and had kicked it aside with practiced ease as he went over.

Longbright had seen this kind of manoeuvre many times before, and knew what to do. She doubled back to the front of the house and followed the side wall around. Families like the Hagans had chosen their position as carefully as English chieftains building fortresses. The intention was to confuse, but any officer worth their salt could see that only one direction led to escape. The boy needed to find crowds, not empty roads where he would stand out. And the only crowded area around here was the tube station, which meant cutting through to Jamaica Road.

Longbright was ahead of Renfield, behind Ashley Hagan. She surveyed the scene ahead and saw his leg vanishing from sight. Renfield was strong but packed weight—the boy would be able to stay ahead of him. She was faster. Turning into Jamaica Road, she saw the streaming traffic and knew he would run out into it with the feral awareness of a fox or cat.

He was dead ahead, vaulting the central railing, and she had no choice but to follow. A gap in the cars allowed her halfway. Renfield was closing behind. Hagan was all the way across. The new glass station shone in a row of unlit shops. She took a chance and ran, ignoring the squeal of tyres on tarmac, knowing she had just caused a truck to shift its load.