‘Is that an order, ma’am?’ Trisha asked, grinning.
Hannah laughed. Straightened up. ‘Right. Get down to that tip. Talk to the staff, pull in any CCTV footage you can get hold of. Marcel, get your make-up on. We need to go and talk to our friend Barrington.’
‘Yes, boss. Stilettos or flats?’
Hannah turned and headed back to her office, a big daft smile on her face. She wanted to jump and click her heels in the air.
Things had suddenly picked up.
Out in the corridor, she flipped a finger towards Devereux’s office.
16
A gang of youths was milling about in the foyer of Erskine Court. Some were smoking, some supping from cans. As Hannah and Marcel headed for the lift, they heard calls of ‘Nee-naw, nee-naw’ and ‘Five-O!’ and ‘All right, darlin’?’
Hannah smiled at them and said, ‘Calm down, lads. You’ve got too much Red Bull in those lager cans. One day you might be ready for a proper drink.’
The youths threw ribald comments back at her, but she laughed them off and stepped into the lift.
‘You think they’re worth questioning?’ Marcel asked.
‘You think they’d tell us anything worthwhile?’ she replied.
The lift took an age to reach the eighth floor. When it did, 801 was directly in front of them. Marcel rapped on the door. It was answered immediately, as if the occupant had been standing on the other side in anticipation.
Hannah wasn’t sure what she was seeing at first. The door chain was on, and through the gap she could make out what seemed to be a yeti with sunken eyes. She held up her ID.
‘Open up, Barrington. We’ve got questions.’
Some hesitation, and then, ‘Shiiit.’
The chain was taken off and the door pulled wide. Hannah now realised that Barrington was wearing a fur-lined parka that was several sizes too big, as if his mother had given it to him along with the promise that he would grow into it. He had the hood up, the whites of his eyes shining out from its depths, like an animal in its burrow.
‘On your way out, Barrington?’ Marcel asked as he and Hannah stepped into the flat.
‘Nah, man. Why’d you ask?’
Marcel simply waved his hand up and down, indicating the coat.
‘Oh, this! Nah, man. Place gets cold, you know? This is just me keeping toasty. Saves on the heating bills, you get me? Some people, they like dressing gowns and shit. Me, this is how I do it.’
‘It’s only October. What do you do when the ice and snow get here?’
The glow within the hood brightened as Barrington grinned. ‘See, that’s when I find me a nice woman to keep me warm at night.’
‘So you didn’t just get a phone call from downstairs telling you that the police were on the way up, and you thought it might be a good time to go for a walk?’
There was a rustle from within the hood, suggesting that Barrington was shaking his head.
‘Uh-uh. I don’t do walks. I don’t hardly go out. I like it here. This is my Batcave, my Fortress of Solitude.’
Hannah sighed. ‘But instead of a cape or a mask, you have a parka – that right, Barrington? At the risk of revealing your true identity, can you at least lose the hood for a few minutes? I like to see who I’m talking to.’
‘You wouldn’t be saying that if this was, like, a Bercow. That shit would be racist, man.’
‘The word is burka. Bercow was the Speaker of the House of Commons. And when the parka becomes a recognised item of religious attire, you can take me to court. The hood, Barrington. Now.’
Barrington pushed back his hood and displayed a piano keyboard grin: white teeth separated by dark gaps that were almost as wide.
‘Doesn’t that feel better, being able to breathe again?’ She looked around the living area. Saw untidiness and stains and dust. ‘What’ve you been up to lately?’ she asked.
Barrington straightened his arm to point to a frozen image on his television. His hand was barely visible beyond the end of his sleeve. ‘Playing on the Xbox, mostly. That zombie fucker is fierce, man. He always smokes me at this point in the game. Always.’
‘And this is how you make a living?’
Barrington laughed and stuffed his forearms into pockets that looked capacious enough to hold a week’s shopping.
‘Nah. This is how I chill. How I wind down.’
‘Wind down after what? A hard day’s work? What do you actually do?’
‘This and that. Wheeling and dealing. You know how it is.’
‘Funny you should mention dealing . . .’ Marcel said.
‘Uh-uh. That’s just an expression, man. Don’t go putting no extra meaning on it.’
‘So you’re not dealing? That’s not how you make your money?’
