Tell No Tales by Eva Dolan Read Free Book Online

Agency. His claim for asylum was being processed when he died. The official Zigic spoke to said they would likely have denied him leave to remain.
    He had been staying at a halfway house off Lincoln Road, working on the black at a sweatshop nearby, sewing party dresses for a big high-street name, and his boss told them how grateful he’d been for the overtime when offered it. He’d left at 2 a.m. and walked home with the extra cash in his pocket, probably feeling like he’d had a better day than usual, until he’d run into the man who’d murdered him.
    Both men were considered decent by the handful of people who knew them, quiet, polite, determined to keep their heads down and avoid trouble. Neither were fighters, which was probably why their killer targeted them.
    Three weeks since Didi’s murder and four days since Manouf’s they were no closer to an arrest. Zigic went to the boards first thing every morning and looked at the dead men’s faces, keeping them clear in his mind so he wouldn’t forget what was at stake. But what dogged him was the belief that soon the blank whiteboard in the corner would be wheeled out, a third victim filling it, because someone who was capable of this level of violence wouldn’t stop until they were caught.
    ‘So you want me to hush this up?’ he asked.
    Riggott put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m advising you to spend the next few days concentrating on building a strong case against Anthony Gilbert. Once he’s charged the pressure goes away, you follow?’
    He knew Riggott was right but he resented having his actions dictated by the demands of the press and the machinations of the city council. Riggott hadn’t wandered up here of his own accord, this wasn’t friendly, off-the-cuff advice, it was an order couched in camaraderie.
    ‘Fine.’
    ‘Good man. Press conference at five,’ Riggott said, heading for the door. He stopped to click his fingers at Ferreira. ‘Mel, make sure he’s wearing a suit.’
    She watched him leave, eyebrows drawn together in a scowl. ‘What, I’m the fucking wardrobe mistress now?’
    Zigic dragged himself away from the boards and poured a coffee, finding the extra officers he’d been given had taken a toll on supplies. Someone had bought pastries though. Small victories, he thought, as he bit into an apricot Danish.
    ‘Have we got anything back from forensics yet?’
    ‘Blood on the airbag is a type match for Gilbert,’ Wahlia said. ‘Jenkins is still working up trajectories, shit like that, I didn’t understand half of what she said to be honest.’
    ‘We don’t need all that,’ Ferreira said, hunched over her desk rolling a cigarette. ‘We just need the bastard to wake up and talk.’
    ‘And if he denies it?’ Zigic asked.
    Ferreira sealed her cigarette. ‘Then we ask harder.’
    ‘And what if he doesn’t wake up at all?’ Zigic said, dipping the end of his Danish into his coffee. ‘Then we’ve got nothing for the CPS. Go back over to Hossa Motors and see if you can get a positive ID from Ivan.’
    Ferreira grabbed her jacket and left the office.
    ‘Have you got hold of his bank records yet, Bobby?’
    ‘Still waiting on them.’
    ‘What about the CCTV?’
    Wahlia shook his head. ‘Bad news on that front. We’ve got nothing before the car appears on Lincoln Road just before the incident.’
    ‘And afterwards?’
    ‘Grieves is on it.’
    Zigic went over to the woman’s desk and she quickly brushed away a few pastry flakes from her lunch. She’d been made up from uniform eighteen months ago and still didn’t seem entirely comfortable with her new rank, softly spoken and painfully timid when it came time to talk up; Zigic wondered how she’d survived as a PC. She was diligent though and had a good eye for detail, something her more bombastic colleagues didn’t share.
    ‘He was chased down Green Lane,’ Zigic said. ‘Is that right?’
    ‘Yes, sir. Four men gave pursuit.’ She showed him the CCTV footage from the