A Dark Redemption by Stav Sherez Page B

him. How long had he left Jennings in the room by himself? ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘Blood’s like that, it . . . it has a certain attraction. Go talk to the porter. I’ll meet you back at the station.’
    Jennings blushed and thanked Carrigan. He took one last long look at the circle of blood, as if hypnotised, and walked out of the flat.
      
    When Carrigan was finished he let himself out, locked the door and replaced the crime-scene tape. Grace’s possessions would be transferred to the incident room later tonight. He’d detail Miller to go through the reams of papers, the books and notes and graphs he’d found. It was pointless work but it needed to be done and there was something about his new DS that told him she would do a good job. The fact that it would also keep her out of his way was an added bonus.
    He knocked on the door next to 87, waited until a Japanese man peered out. He ran through his spiel, flashed Grace’s photo, got bemused head shakes and polite rebuttals. Another door closed, nothing out of place or suspicious, another name ticked off. He’d already detailed some uniforms to do this but he knew he wouldn’t be totally satisfied unless he did it himself.
    He spent the next two hours in a repetition of knocking, asking, thanking, leaving. The tenants were on their way to late shifts or in the middle of changing a baby’s nappy, or doing the laundry, the washing-up, the day’s crossword. They scrunched up their faces at the interruption, glanced cursorily at the photo, shook their heads and went back to their lives. He passed through cramped flats smelling of disappointment and loss, through lives lived in small boxes, piled atop each other, work and sleep the only two certainties. No one was interested in why the police were asking about this one girl. Branch had expressly forbidden them to mention that she’d been murdered, knowing how soon this would leak to the press. But with only a photo no one cared, no one thought twice about saying no. There was still a sanctity about murder; people who usually wouldn’t say a word to the police offered up all kinds of evidence and rumour. No one cared if the girl next door was a prostitute or drug dealer but if she’d been murdered then they could be next.
    He reached the last flat on Grace’s floor and pressed the buzzer. It was sticky with something, like most of the buzzers, and he wiped his hand on his trousers, thinking of the coffee and cheeseburger he was going to have when this was finished, diet be damned. He could hear the buzzer ringing inside the flat, competing with the sound of relatives arguing, washing machines spinning, TVs blaring and kids screaming. It didn’t surprise him that most of the residents didn’t welcome the knock on the door. Bayswater had always been a place for immigrants fleeing religious persecution, revolution and dictatorship. They took the last of their savings and bought a one-bedroom flat, somewhere they could lock the door, not answer the bell. Huguenots in Paddington and Romanovs in Queensway. Now there was a new breed fleeing civil wars and uprisings across Africa and the Middle East. They lived lives of quiet solitude, sequestered in their flats, not really part of the city, occasionally meeting in émigré groups, rehashing old tales, their eyes always fixed on the door. He wondered if their lives were really better here – safer, yes, but cut off from their own history and culture they seemed to wither like plucked flowers.
    The door opened slowly, a centimetre at a time, and a middle-aged woman with straggly grey hair peered at him through the crack. ‘I’m not buying anything.’
    He tried for his best smile. ‘That’s all right, I’m not selling anything.’
    This seemed to throw her; she stood there looking him up and down, clucking to herself and shaking her head.
    ‘If I could take a minute of your time, please?’ He showed her his warrant card.
    ‘You here about the noise?’ she