Sidana stood, glancing round the room at the few other detectives who were working late. “Maybe we’d better go in your office, boss.”
Kincaid led them into his office and closed the door. No one sat. He couldn’t imagine what necessitated such secrecy but his stomach knotted with tension. “What the hell is it?”
Simon Gikas looked at Sidana, who gave him a nod. “We pulled a floater out of the Regent’s Canal at King’s Cross today, near the Guardian. Nasty bit of business. Been in for a couple of days, from his condition. It wasn’t until they got him to the mortuary that they saw it was more than a drowning. He’d been stabbed.”
“And?” Kincaid asked.
Sidana took it up. “His wallet and phone were in his pockets. Driving license identifies him as one Michael Stanley, age fifty-two, white male. His license covers commercial vehicles, so maybe a lorry driver. But when the mortuary ran his prints, they came back as Michael Stanton. They were in the Met database. He’s a cop.”
“What?” Kincaid stared at them. This suddenly sounded all too familiar.
“Yeah,” said Simon. “Or he was. Not showing as retired, but hasn’t been posted anywhere in ten years. And his record, what I could find of it, shows some disciplinary issues.”
“What about his phone?”
“Toast, probably, after extended time in the canal. And I’d guess it’s a burner anyway. Cheapest model.”
“Home address on the license?”
“An estate in Hackney, but there’s no such flat number in that location.”
Kincaid liked this less and less, and Hackney rang big alarm bells. Ryan Marsh’s cover flat had been in Hackney. “Where in Hackney, exactly?” He said it so sharply that Simon and Sidana both started.
Frowning, Simon told him the name of the estate. It was not the one where Ryan had lived, but it was not dissimilar.
“Who’s the pathologist?” Kincaid asked.
“The body went to the London,” Sidana told him. “I don’t know if anyone’s been assigned to do the postmortem yet.”
“I want Rashid Kaleem on this one. And, Simon, find a real address. He’s got to have left a trail somewhere.”
“Sir,” said Sidana, sounding unusually hesitant. “We were wondering. We haven’t yet informed Chief Superintendent Faith that the victim’s prints were in the Met personnel database. He seems to have a lot on his plate at the moment.”
“Yes, I know.” Was he just being paranoid, thinking they had another undercover cop on their hands? But it fit the pattern. And if there was even a possibility that it was true, the fewer people who knew, the better. He trusted these two. And Tom Faith. But once Faith was told, the information would be passed up the chain of command, and that thought made him uneasy. “Let’s see what we can find before we bother the chief super,” he said, and both Sidana and Simon looked satisfied.
“Have you got photos?” he asked.
Sidana passed him a folder she’d carried in with her. Opening it, he found copies of the crime scene shots. He recognized the section of the canal where the body had been pulled out. The canal path was busy in the daytime, he guessed, but probably deserted at night except for the occasional jogger. Of course, the bloke hadn’t necessarily gone in where he’d surfaced . . .
Had the victim been stabbed from the front or the back? Kincaid wondered. In a fight, or in an unguarded attack from behind?
He flipped to the close-up photos of the corpse. The entry wound was beneath the left rib cage. It would take the postmortem to show whether the knife had been angled upwards, a deliberate blow. Next, he studied the man’s face, but he couldn’t tell much because of the bloating. There was a small mark on the neck, but from the photo he couldn’t determine whether it was a bruise or a birthmark, or perhaps a tattoo.
The next page showed him an enlarged copy of the driving license with its photo. An unremarkable man looked back at him. Thinning fairish hair. A rather old-fashioned-looking mustache, which he had not sported when he’d gone in the canal. Eyes, brown; height, five feet, ten inches. And, yet, there was something in that unremarkable face that made Kincaid think he’d not have turned his back on this man.
“Can I keep these?” he asked Sidana.
“Your copies, boss.”
“Then see how soon Rashid can do the postmortem.”
“You look all in, boss,” said Sidana. From her, it was the height of personal concern. “You should go home.”
Yes, he thought. He should. But he had a lot of talking to do when he got there, and he was not looking forward to it.
Chapter Nineteen
August 1994
He had prayed for rain. The day of Carnival, however, dawned bright and clear. It promised to be hot, and heat always escalated the potential for violence. Notting Hill Carnival was a policing nightmare, with close to a million people jammed into a few streets, and most of the crowd partaking liberally of alcohol.
It was the first day, Sunday, so he didn’t expect the crowds to be quite as dense, or as rowdy. But he still had to push his way through people just to get to the Tabernacle, where the group had agreed to meet.
He’d talked them out of carrying placards, thank God. “Carnival’s always been about cultural harmony,” he’d told them. “It’s not the place you have to make that point.”
“Tell that to Stephen Lawrence,” Marvin had said and the rest had nodded in agreement.
It was Annette who’d come up with the idea for badges. She’d had them made, half with just Stephen Lawrence’s first name, half with his photo. They agreed they’d wear them on their clothes, and on ribbons and sashes, and that they would hand them out to festivalgoers.
When he arrived at the Tabernacle he found them decked out like human Christmas trees, buttons clanking and jingling. Annette, who ordinarily straightened her hair, had put it in tiny braids festooned with beads and ribbons. She handed him a large sash, covered in the big badges. “I made this for you,” she said.
He held it up. “But . . . it’s pink,” he said, and grinned. Their excitement was contagious, as was the steel band music already pulsing from the giant speakers set up along the carnival route. Dutifully, he put on the sash, and they checked each other’s makeshift costumes, giggling like kids getting ready for a party.
“Remember to stay together,” he said, when they were ready. “And stay out of trouble, okay?”