Invasion of Privacy

Chapter 5

Jenny found DCI Raul Da Silva on the twelfth floor in an empty office he’d temporarily requisitioned as his base of operations. Leaning all the way back in a leather executive chair behind an impressive oak desk, he’d swung around to take in the view of a dank, grey London. The incessant rain caressed the floor-to-ceiling windows, rivulets of water streaming downwards. He chatted loudly on his mobile, his back to her.

“I don’t care what they’re complaining about, DC Malik, you make damn sure that the constable at the front door understands that he’s not to let any press in. Got it?”

Jenny walked around the desk and pressed her head to the window. She welcomed the bracing cold on her forehead. It helped clear the brutal images of the murdered girl six floors above. Far below, a colourful bunch of umbrellas had gathered outside the entrance. Media vans were double-parked on the road nearby. Television cameras poked out from under rain covers and pointed at the building. 

Da Silva noticed Jenny, straightened his chair and ended his call.

“Can you believe this? The press has arrived and want to be allowed in the building — our crime scene — so that they can get out of the rain.”

“It is very wet out there,” she said absently. A barge powered slowly along Regents Canal, a barely perceptible wake behind it.

“What’s with you, DI Price?”

“Nothing, guv.” Jenny pulled herself together and took a seat on the other side of the desk. Da Silva pivoted round, placed his massive hands on the table and leaned forward. On the desk stood an improbably huge Starbucks takeaway cup.

 “Have we tracked down the other receptionist yet? Looks like she’s the last one to have seen the victim alive.”

Jenny didn’t bother correcting him with the fact that surely the killer last saw Anna Parker alive.

“Alan . . . I mean DS Coombs is picking her up now.” 

She’d corrected herself because Da Silva didn’t like using first names. Being both newly promoted and newly transferred to lead Holborn’s MIT, addressing everyone by rank and surname was a technique he employed to reinforce his seniority. Hopefully, he’d one day figure out that facing adversity as a team, day after day, forged a natural closeness that necessitated the informality of forenames and nicknames. 

“What about time of death?”

“One of the tenants on the floor below recalled hearing music on Friday evening just as he was leaving for home. Even though it was faint, he remembered as it was out of the norm. He just assumed it was part of a computer presentation”

“What time was this?”

“About six-thirty. He knows because he made his usual train at Paddington.”

“So she was alive at six-thirty.”

“And dead not long after, according to Dr Gorski, the pathologist.”

“What about CCTV?”

“It only covers the reception area. Mr Evans, the building manager, says it’s stored and managed remotely at the Flexbase headquarters in Docklands.”

“Next of kin?”

“Trinity College gave us her home address. She’s originally from Torquay. Devon police have been informed and they’re informing the parents. She lives with some other students in Charlton, just round the corner from Greenwich. I’ll send DC Malik there in a minute. I’m going to head there too when I finish here.” 

“That’s fine with me.” 

She hadn’t asked his permission, but he acted as if he’d deigned to grant it. He took a sip of his coffee through the hole in the plastic lid. Jenny took the opportunity to jump in and ask her own question before he could hit her with another of his.