Chapter 42
There are no longer sufficient chairs in the briefing room for everyone to sit down.
Detectives seconded to Lauren’s team lean against the walls, perch on windowsills and roam restlessly by the door, as though keen to get going with their enquiries – or perhaps to get to the canteen before breakfast ends, Lauren thinks wryly.
Sitting beside her at the front of the room is DI Stratman.
The moment Golding’s murder had been linked to an extremist organization, there had been pressure on Lauren to hand over ownership of the investigation to the counter-terrorism unit.
Lauren had stood her ground. She’d argued that her previous time on the CTU, and her team’s experience of complex murder investigations, made major crime perfectly placed to oversee the case.
The detective superintendent had eventually agreed on the condition that Stratman be given access to everything Lauren’s team did.
Lauren had – somewhat reluctantly – agreed.
‘The post-mortem has confirmed Golding died as a result of a single puncture wound to the stomach,’ she tells her team, ‘caused by a thirteen-centimetre stiletto blade with bevelled edges on both sides. It perforated the stomach and bowel and caused a fatal internal haemorrhage. Bruising around the incision suggests that whoever stabbed him pushed it right up to the hilt.’
‘Brutal,’ Kenric says.
‘The type of knife adds weight to our theory that this was premeditated, right?’ Fraser says. ‘I mean, they didn’t just grab a kitchen knife – they came prepared.’
‘Right.’ Lauren looks around the room. ‘So, assuming it was New Dawn who killed him, that tallies with the rest of their operation. They’re slick.
Well prepared.’ She taps a key on her laptop and brings up the slide with their list of suspects.
‘We don’t know if the individuals purporting to be police officers and mortuary staff were responsible for Golding’s murder, or if they were a separate clean-up crew, but it’s fair to assume they’re all connected to New Dawn.
’ She looks around the room. ‘Find one, and we’ll find the rest.’
‘We’re still looking at Jamie’s line manager, Adam -Bennington,’ Fraser adds, ‘as well as Nadeeka’s ex-husband, Scott Hadley, who recently moved in with her for “security reasons”.’ His emphasis prompts a murmur of cynicism from his colleagues.
‘I can do some more checks on Hadley,’ says one of the intelligence officers.
‘Thank you.’ Lauren wishes she had something more concrete to go on than a feeling. ‘Find out if he’s affiliated with any political parties, if he’s ever attended a protest or demo. And take a look at his socials. See what he’s followed, liked and shared.’
‘Surely we’ve got the same issue we ran into with our theory on Golding,’ Matt says. ‘Hadley was married to Prasanna; they’ve got kids together. Why would he suddenly target her?’
‘Because he’s bitter?’ Fraser suggests. ‘Remember that Fathers for Justice guy who went berserk when he was refused custody? Mr Nice Guy for a decade and then . . .’ He aims an invisible rifle at Matt.
‘Hadley looks the type, to be fair.’ Kenric is looking at his phone. He spins it round, flashing a Facebook profile picture. ‘White – no offence, hashtag-not-all-whites etcetera – shaved head, tatts . . .’
Sonya takes the phone and squints at the photo. ‘You can’t tell where his face ends and his neck starts.’ She hands it back. ‘I hate to break it to you young ones, but once you hit forty the dating apps are full of bald men who look like thumbs.’
‘Can we get back on track, please?’ Lauren’s relieved she doesn’t have to worry about an online world full of thumb-men. ‘Kenric, how are you getting on with fancy-dress shops?’
‘I’ve made some enquiries, but all the police stuff they hire out is very obviously fake – plastic hats, rubber batons and the like.
I’ve got a potential lead with a company called Blue Light Wardrobes, which supplies military and emergency service costumes to film and TV companies. I’m seeing the owner later today.’
Bahnaz puts a hand in the air, as though she’s at school. ‘I’ve got an update on the body bag, ma’am.’
‘Go on.’
‘The manufacturer says the serial number on the bag was part of a bulk order placed by Fletcher & Sons Funeral Services, in Elmsfield.’
‘Have you spoken to them?’
‘No, ma’am, I thought it would be better to surprise them. I’m going there after briefing.’
‘Excellent. I’ll come with you.’ Lauren turns her gaze on to a man in his late fifties, wearing jeans and a navy bomber jacket over a grey T-shirt with a stain on the collar. ‘Whitty?’
‘Ta. I’ll keep it brief.’ DC Craig ‘Whitty’ Whitfield has a physique honed from a career working round-the-clock surveillance shifts, snatching snacks from service stations, and (now that he is nearing retirement) a sedentary job on the source management unit as handler to a number of fiercely protected informants.
Unshaven and with hair in need of a comb, Whitty looks, Lauren always thinks, more like a source himself than a handler.
‘New Dawn switch up their meeting locations, as you’ve discovered.
’ Whitty speaks at a volume the entire room has to strain to hear.
Every SMU detective Lauren has ever met has spoken in a similar way, as though they’re wary of being overheard, even if the conversation is a request to use admin’s photocopier because the one in SMU is broken.
‘No connection to the Freemasons, but my source says it keeps people from asking questions.’
Lauren wonders if Whitty has an undercover officer in New Dawn, or whether his intelligence is coming second, or even third, hand.
‘Each chapter decides on their targets independently. Locally my source tells me there’s been a focus on recruitment, with at least a dozen new members brought in over the last year.’
‘Do we have any names?’ Stratman interrupts.
‘Working on it.’ Whitty turns pointedly back to Lauren, and she appreciates the old-school respect for her rank and role. ‘New Dawn have plans for more of what they call “direct action”, and my source reckons it’s due to kick off in the next week or so.’
‘Can he give us a steer on what their target is?’ Or who, Lauren silently adds, thinking of Nadeeka and her two young daughters.
Whitty shakes his head. ‘All he knows is . . .’ He raises both hands for absolution. ‘Forgive my French, boss, but I’m quoting here: he says it’s going to be a fucking bloodbath.’
The room falls silent.
A bloodbath in an unknown location at an unknown time.
And they have a matter of days to stop it.