Page 35 of The Scene of the Crime (Jessica Russell #1)

John Walsh and Fred Wigg Towers were identical council-owned tower blocks in Montague Road, East London, which backed onto playing fields.

Chapman and DS Wood sat in the elderly neighbour’s flat on the fourteenth floor of John Walsh Tower, patiently waiting for ‘Liam’ to return.

Wood looked out the window with high-powered binoculars while Chapman spoke to his colleagues on the radio.

Four officers were in an unmarked observation van, and two were waiting in the living room of Liam’s flat.

‘Listen up, everyone. I want the observation van officers to let me know if you see someone matching Liam’s description approaching the building.

Do not approach him. Let him come up to the fourteenth floor so we can do a pincer movement to arrest him.

I will watch for him through the peephole of the neighbour’s flat opposite.

Whatever happens, the two of you inside his flat wait for my command so we can cut him off from the fire escape in case he tries to leg it.

The four of you in the observation van cover the front and rear doors of the building in pairs when we pounce. Is that understood?’

Everyone answered ‘received’, and Chapman said to maintain silence until a possible suspect was spotted.

‘This could all be a waste of time,’ Wood muttered. ‘If this Liam kid looked out the window and saw all the police cars pulling up outside, he could have legged it down the fire escape and gone out the back unnoticed.’

Chapman was more optimistic. ‘I reckon he’d have grabbed the watch and the cash first.’

‘Not if he was approaching the building when we turned up. Anyway, it’s not your fault. Anderson is in charge and should have set up an observation from the start while making enquiries to find out more about the suspect.’

‘I did raise it with him . . .’

‘But as usual, he ignored your advice. Be honest, Mike, Anderson couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery. He knew he’d screwed up when there was no one in the flat. He panicked, then beat a hasty retreat to set up the observation. He’ll no doubt be proudly telling Belsham he found the Rolex.’

‘To be fair, I don’t think Anderson just wants to cover himself in glory. It’s more a case of him trying to prove he’s worthy of the rank.’

‘You can’t polish a turd, Mike,’ Wood said.

‘Do you think someone in the office leaked information to the press?’

‘Is that a subtle way of asking if it was me?’ Wood smiled.

‘No, not at all,’ Chapman replied unconvincingly.

‘Look, Mike, we both know I can’t stand the man, and I don’t think he should be a detective, let alone an SIO. I’d love to see Anderson get kicked back to uniform, but releasing stuff to the press is not my style, and I wouldn’t risk my career for the likes of him.’

‘Sorry, I was out of order.’

‘Not at all. Professional standards will ask me the same question, and I’m not afraid to give them the same answer.’

‘Do you think it could have been Anderson himself?’

Wood laughed. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past him, but I don’t think he’s that stupid. He’ll delight in telling Commander Williams that the Rolex and cash were recovered due to a tip-off after the press release. Then, when Liam is arrested, he’ll have even more to boast about.’

‘I don’t think he’s so much a big head as insecure. He can be all right sometimes.’

‘Can we change the subject . . . even talking about him does my head in.’

Iris, the flat’s resident, walked into the living room. She was in her late seventies and had lived alone since her husband died two years ago. Originally from Scotland, she’d been in London for forty years but hadn’t lost her soft Highland accent.

‘Would you boys like a cup of tea and some homemade sponge cake?’ she asked.

‘That sounds very nice,’ Chapman said, and Wood nodded.

‘What’s Liam done?’ Iris asked.

‘We need to speak to him about an incident,’ Chapman replied evasively.

‘Is it anything to do with what was on the news last night about that South African man who was robbed and stabbed?’

‘What makes you think that?’ Wood asked.

‘I saw that long-faced detective who asked me questions about Liam on the telly last night.’

‘That was Detective Chief Inspector Anderson,’ Chapman said. ‘He thinks Liam might be able to help us with our enquiries, but it doesn’t mean he’s done anything wrong.’

‘He’s a lovely lad, you know. He regularly knocks and asks how I am, and when the lifts are out of order, he does my shopping for me. You want milk and sugar in your tea?’

‘Milk and one spoonful of sugar, please,’ Chapman said.

‘Just milk for me, ta,’ Wood added. She went back to the kitchen.

‘I’ll bet Anderson’s questions weren’t exactly probing,’ Wood said under his breath.

‘Maybe I’ll have another go, then,’ Chapman replied. ‘You take notes.’

Iris returned with the tea, two large slices of sponge cake and a can of spray cream.

‘Hope you like the cake. I made it myself. It’s a bit dry, but the squirty cream moistens it.

’ She shook the can and then sprayed the cake with the cream.

They each tried a bit and commented on how delicious it was.

‘There’s plenty more in the kitchen if you want it,’ she smiled.

‘Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about Liam?’ Chapman asked. ‘It’s just that we don’t know much about him.’

‘Not at all, but I don’t think I can help you much. I haven’t known him very long.’

‘My colleague DS Wood will take some notes if that is OK with you.’

‘Of course, that’s what detectives do, isn’t it? I watch a lot of detective shows on TV, so I know the procedure.’

Chapman smiled. ‘How long has Liam lived here?’

‘About six or seven months now. He’s a friend of Winston’s.’

‘Who’s Winston?’

‘He rents the flat from the council, but he’s gone back to Jamaica and said Liam could use it.’

‘Do you know why Winston went back to Jamaica?’

‘His dad died suddenly. His mum’s got Alzheimer’s, so he needed to look after her.’

‘Did he say when he might be returning?’

‘No, but I think it might be a long time from what he said. He might even stay there for good.’

‘How do Winston and Liam know each other?’

‘Winston used to live with Liam’s mum, Maria, in the flat, but they split up about a year ago and she moved out. Poor thing was an alcoholic. Winston did his best to help her, but in the end, he couldn’t handle it anymore, so he asked her to leave.’

‘Do you know where she lives now?’ Chapman asked.

‘Not a clue, sweetheart. She used to drink in The Bell on the High Road, next to the fire station, if that’s any help.’

‘It is, thanks. Does Liam have any regular visitors or close friends in the area?’

She shook her head. ‘He’s a quiet lad. Keeps himself to himself.’

‘Did he say what he does for a living?’

‘I think he works in a shop or something like that. He said he likes serving people and chatting to them.’

‘Do you know what shifts he works?’

‘Nights mostly, but I don’t know what hours.’

‘Could it be a local supermarket he works at?’

‘Maybe, but I’m not sure. There’s an Aldi on the High Road and a Tesco Express. You ask a lot more questions than that Anderson fellow.’

‘Did you tell him what you’ve just told us?’ Wood enquired.

‘No. He just asked me who lived in the flat and what he looked like, then he left. Liam’s done something bad, hasn’t he?’

‘We don’t know, but we do need to speak to him,’ Chapman replied. ‘I don’t think he’d hurt a fly.’

‘I know you gave DCI Anderson a description of Liam, but it would be good to get it again, just in case he missed anything.’

‘I think he’s about twenty-five and your height, whatever that is.’

‘I’m five feet eleven. You also mentioned that he was bald.’

‘What, that wee Anderson fellow?’

‘No, Liam.’

‘That’s because he has alopecia. The poor boy was involved in a hit-and-run accident. He told me it happened a few years ago, and he nearly died . . . that’s why he lost all his hair.’

‘Is that including his eyebrows?’ Wood asked.

‘Oh, yes.’ Chapman suddenly got a call over the radio.

‘Obo van to Chapman, receiving over . . .’ Chapman acknowledged the call and told them to go ahead.

‘Possible male target on foot approaching flats. Wearing a black jacket, blue jeans, dark trainers and carrying a backpack. Height and age fit but unable to see head as wearing a black cap, over . . .’

‘Has he got eyebrows?’ Chapman asked.

‘What?’ the officer replied, clearly confused.

‘The target suffers from alopecia and doesn’t have eyebrows.’

‘Hang on, we need him to get closer to us, over . . .’

Wood looked out the window with his binoculars and saw the target. ‘Is that Liam approaching the building?’ he asked Iris.

‘I can’t tell from up here,’ she said. Wood handed her the binoculars. As she peered through them, Chapman got a reply from the observation van, saying that the target didn’t appear to have eyebrows.

‘Yes, that’s Liam,’ Iris said, handing back the binoculars.

The officer in the van radioed that the target was entering the building.

Chapman told everyone to wait for his signal, then went to the door to look through the spy hole.

He waited, then watched as the lift doors opened and Liam exited the lift.

As he approached his flat door, he stopped and looked at it.

Chapman assumed he had noticed the scrape-marks on the door from where they forced entry earlier.

‘Go, go, go!’ Chapman shouted over the radio.

‘Please don’t hurt him!’ Iris shouted as Chapman, followed by Wood, exited the flat and entered the hallway.

‘Police, stay where you are!’ Chapman shouted as the officer in Liam’s flat came out.

Liam bolted for the fire escape, and Chapman grabbed his coat, but he slipped out of it and ran down the stairs.